THE  POEMS  OF 
ERNEST  DOWSON 


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THE  POEMS  OF 
ERNEST  DOWSON 

WITH  A  MEMOIR  BY 

ARTHUR     SY  MONS 

FOUR  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

AUBREY    BEARDS LEY 

AND  A  PORTRAIT  BY 

WILLIAM    ROTH  EN  STEIN 


LONDON :  JOHN  LANE  THE  BODLEY  HEAD  LTD. 
MCMXXII 


Ninth  Edition 


Printed  in  England  at  THE  BALLANTYNE  PRESS 
Spottiswoode,  ballantyne  &  Co.  Ltd. 
Colchester,  London  <&  Eton 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


I 

THE  death  of  Ernest  Dowson  will  mean  very 
little  to  the  world  at  large,  but  it  will  mean 
a  great  deal  to  the  few  people  who  care 
passionately  for  poetry.  A  little  book  of  verses, 
the  manuscript  of  another,  a  one-act  play  in  verse, 
a  few  short  stories,  two  novels  written  in  collabo- 
ration, some  translations  from  the  French,  done 
for  money  ;  that  is  all  that  was  left  by  a  man  who 
was  undoubtedly  a  man  of  genius,  not  a  great 
poet,  but  a  poet,  one  of  the  very  few  writers  of 
our  generation  to  whom  that  name  can  be  applied 
in  its  most  intimate  sense.  People  will  complain, 
probably,  in  his  verses,  of  what  will  seem  to  them 
the  factitious  melancholy,  the  factitious  idealism, 
and  (peeping  through  at  a  few  rare  moments)  the 
factitious  suggestions  of  riot.    They  will  see  only 

V 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


a  literary  affectation,  where  in  truth  there  is  as 
genuine  a  note  of  personal  sincerity  as  in  the  more 
explicit  and  arranged  confessions  of  less  admirable 
poets.  Yes,  in  these  few  evasive,  immaterial 
snatches  of  song,  I  find,  implied  for  the  most  part, 
hidden  away  like  a  secret,  all  the  fever  and  turmoil 
and  the  unattained  dreams  of  a  life  which  had  itself 
so  much  of  the  swift,  disastrous,  and  suicidal 
impetus  of  genius. 

Ernest  Christopher  Dowson  was  born  at  The 
Grove,  Belmont  Hill,  Lee,  Kent,  on  August  2nd, 
1867  ;  he  died  at  26  Sandhurst  Gardens,  Catford, 
5.E.,  on  Friday  morning,  February  23,  1900,  and 
was  buried  in  the  Roman  Catholic  part  of  the 
Lewisham  Cemetery  on  February  27.  His  great- 
uncle  was  Alfred  Domett,  Browning's  "  Waring," 
at  one  time  Prime  Minister  of  New  Zealand,  and 
author  of  "  Ranolf  and  Amohia,"  and  other  poems 
His  father,  who  had  himself  a  taste  for  literature, 
lived  a  good  deal  in  France  and  on  the  Riviera,  on 
account  of  the  delicacy  of  his  health,  and  Ernest 
had  a  somewhat  irregular  education,  chiefly  out 
of  England,  before  he  entered  Queen's  College, 
Oxford.  He  left  in  1887  without  taking  a  degree, 
and  came  tc  London,  where  he  lived  for  several 

vi 


EKNESr  U()\VS(  N 
From  a  photogt  aph 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


years,  often  revisiting  France,  which  was  always 
his  favourite  country.  Latterly,  until  the  last 
year  of  his  life,  he  lived  almost  entirely  in  Paris, 
Brittany,  and  Normandy.  Never  robust,  and 
always  reckless  with  himself,  his  health  had  been 
steadily  getting  worse  for  some  years,  and  when 
he  came  back  to  London  he  looked,  as  indeed  he 
was,  a  dying  man.  Morbidly  shy,  with  a  sensitive 
independence  which  shrank  from  any  sort  of 
obligation,  he  would  not  communicate  with  his 
relatives,  who  would  gladly  have  helped  him,  or 
with  any  of  the  really  large  number  of  attached 
friends  whom  he  had  in  London  ;  and,  as  his 
disease  weakened  him  more  and  more,  he  hid  him- 
self away  in  his  miserable  lodgings,  refused  to  sec 
a  doctor,  let  hvmself  half  starve,  and  was  found 
one  day  in  a  Bodega  with  only  a  few  shillings  in 
his  pocket,  and  so  weak  as  to  be  hardly  able  to 
walk,  by  a  friend,  himself  in  some  difficulties,  who 
immediately  took  him  back  to  the  bricklayer's 
cottage  in  a  mv.ddy  outskirt  of  Catford,  where  he 
was  himself  living,  and  there  generously  looked 
after  him  for  the  last  six  weeks  of  his  Hfe. 

He  did  not  realise  that  he  was  going  to  die  ; 
ajid  was  full  of  projects  for  the  future,  when  the 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


£600  which  was  to  come  to  him  from  the  sale  of 
«ome  property  should  have  given  him  a  fresh 
chance  in  the  world ;  began  to  read  Dickens, 
whom  he  had  never  read  before,  with  singular  zest ; 
and,  on  the  last  day  of  his  life,  sat  up  talking 
eagerly  till  five  in  the  morning.  At  the  very 
moment  of  his  death  he  did  not  know  that  he  was 
dying.  He  tried  to  cough,  could  not  cough,  and 
the  heart  quietly  stopped. 


II 

I  cannot  remember  my  first  meeting  with  Ernest 
Dowson.  It  may  have  been  in  1 891,  at  one  of  the 
meetings  of  the  Rhymers'  Club,  in  an  upper  room 
of  the  Cheshire  Cheese,*'  where  long  clay  pipes 
lay  in  slim  heaps  on  the  wooden  tables,  between 
tankards  of  ale  ;  and  young  poets,  then  very  young, 
recited  their  own  verses  to  one  another  with  a 
desperate  and  ineffectual  attempt  to  get  into  key 
with  the  Latin  Quarter.  Though  few  of  us  were, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  Anglo-Saxon,  we  could  not 
help  feeling  that  we  were  in  London,  and  the 
atmosphere  of  London  is  not  the  atmosphere  of 

viii 


ERNEST  DOWSON 

movements  or  of  societies.     In  Paris  It  is  the 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  meet  and  dis- 
cuss literature,  ideas,  one's  own  and  one  another's 
work  ;  and  it  can  be  done  without  pretentiousness 
or  constraint,  because,  to  the  Latin  mind,  art,  ideas, 
one's  work  and  the  work  of  one's  friends,  are 
definite  and  important  things,  which  it  would  nevci 
occur  to  any  one  to  take  anything  but  seriously. 
In  England  art  has  to  be  protected  not  only  against 
the  world,  but  against  one's  self  and  one's  fellow 
artist,  by  a  kind  of  affected  modesty  which  is  the 
Englishman's  natural  pose,  half  pride  and  halt 
self-distrust.  So  this  brave  venture  of  the  Rhymers' 
Club,  though  it  lasted  for  two  or  three  years,  and 
produced  two  little  books  of  verse  which  will  some 
day  be  literary  curiosities,  was  not  quite  a  satisfac- 
tory kind  of  cenacle,    Dowson,  who  enjoyed  the 
real  thing  so  much  in  Paris,  did  not,  I  think,  go 
very  often ;  but  his  contributions  to  the  first  book 
of  the  club  were  at  once  the  most  delicate  and  the 
most  distinguished  poems  which  it  contained.  Was 
it,  after  all,  at  one  of  these  meetings  that  I  first 
saw  him,  or  was  it,  perhaps,  at  another  haunt  of 
some  of  us  at  that  time,  a  semi-literary  tavern 
near  Leicester  Square,  chosen  for  its  convenient 

LX 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


position  between  two  stage-doors  ?  It  was  at  the 
time  when  one  or  two  of  us  sincerely  worshipped 
the  ballet  ;  Dowson,  alas  !  never.  I  could  never 
get  him  to  see  that  charm  in  harmonious  and 
coloured  movement,  like  bright  shadows  seen 
through  the  floating  gauze  of  the  music,  which  held 
me  night  after  night  at  the  two  theatres  which 
alone  seemed  to  me  to  give  an  amusing  colour  to 
one's  dreams.  Neither  the  stage  nor  the  stage- 
door  had  any  attraction  for  him  ;  but  he  came  to 
the  tavern  because  it  was  a  tavern,  and  because  he 
could  meet  his  friends  there.  Even  before  that  time 
I  have  a  vague  impression  of  having  met  him,  I 
forget  where,  certainly  at  night ;  and  of  having 
been  struck,  even  then,  by  a  look  and  manner  of 
pathetic  charm,  a  sort  of  Keats-like  face,  the  face 
of  a  demoralised  Keats,  and  by  something  curious 
in  the  contrast  of  a  manner  exquisitely  refined, 
with  an  appearance  generally  somewhat  dilapidated. 
That  impression  was  only  accentuated  later  on, 
when  I  came  to  know  him,  and  the  manner  of  his 
life,  much  more  intimately. 

I  think  I  may  date  my  first  impression  of  what 
one  calls  "  the  real  man  "  (as  if  it  were  more  real 
than  the  poet  of  the  disembodied  verses  !)  from  an 


ERNEST  DOWSON 

evening  in  which  he  first  introduced  me  to  those 
charming  supper-houses,  open  all  night  through, 
the  cabmen's  shelters.  I  had  been  talking  over 
another  vagabond  poet,  Lord  Rochester,  with  a 
charming  and  sympathetic  descendant  of  that  poet, 
and  somewhat  late  at  night  we  had  come  upon 
Dowson  and  another  man  wandering  aimlessly  and 
excitedly  about  the  streets.  He  invited  us  to 
supper,  we  did  not  quite  realise  where,  and  the 
cabman  came  in  with  us,  as  we  were  welcomed, 
cordially  and  without  comment,  at  a  little  place 
near  the  Langham ;  and,  I  recollect,  very  hospi- 
tably entertained.  The  cooking  differs,  as  I  found 
in  time,  in  these  supper-houses,  but  there  the 
rasher  was  excellent  and  the  cups  admirably  clean. 
Dowson  was  known  there,  and  I  used  to  think  he 
was  always  at  his  best  in  a  cabmen's  shelter.  With- 
out a  certain  sordidness  in  his  surroundings  he  was 
never  quite  comfortable,  never  quite  himself ;  and 
at  those  places  you  are  obliged  to  drink  nothing 
stronger  than  coffee  or  tea.  I  liked  to  see  him 
occasionally,  for  a  change,  drinking  nothing 
stronger  than  coffee  or  tea.  At  Oxford,  I  believe, 
his  favourite  form  of  intoxication  had  been 
haschisch  ;  afterwards  he  gave  up  this  somewhat 

xi 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


elaborate  experiment  in  visionary  sensations  for 
readier  means  of  oblivion  ;  but  he  returned  to  it, 
I  remember,  for  at  least  one  afternoon,  in  a  com- 
pany of  which  I  had  been  the  gatherer  and  of 
which  I  was  the  host.  I  remember  him  sitting  a 
little  anxiously,  with  his  chin  on  his  breast,  await- 
ing the  magic,  half-shy  in  the  midst  of  a  bright 
company  of  young  people  whom  he  had  only  seen 
across  the  footlights.  The  experience  was  not  a 
very  successful  one  ;  it  ended  in  what  should  have 
been  its  first  symptom,  immoderate  laughter. 

Always,  perhaps,  a  little  consciously,  but  at  least 
a.lways  sincerely,  in  search  ot  new  sensations,  my 
friend  found  what  was  for  him  the  supreme  sen- 
sation in  a  very  passionate  and  tender  adoration 
of  the  most  escaping  of  all  ideals,  the  ideal  of 
youth.  Cherished,  as  I  imagine,  first  only  in  the 
abstract,  this  search  after  the  immature,  the  ripening 
graces  which  time  can  only  spoil  in  the  ripening, 
found  itself  at  the  journey's  end,  as  some  of  his 
friends  thought,  a  little  prematurely.  I  was  never 
of  their  opinion.  I  only  saw  twice,  and  for  a  few 
moments  only,  the  young  girl  to  whom  most  of  his 
verses  were  to  be  written,  and  whose  presence  in  his 
life  may  be  held  to  account  for  much  of  that 

xii 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


astonishing  contrast  between  the  broad  outlines  of 
his  life  and  work.  The  situation  seemed  to  me  of 
the  most  exquisite  and  appropriate  impossibility. 
The  daughter  of  a  refugee,  I  believe  of  good 
family,  reduced  to  keeping  a  humble  restaurant  in 
a  foreign  <^uarter  of  London,  she  listened  to  his 
verses,  smiled  charmingly,  under  her  mother's  eyes, 
on  his  two  years'  courtship,  and  at  the  end  of  twc 
years  married  the  waiter  instead.  Did  she  ever 
realise  more  than  the  obvious  part  of  what  was 
being  offered  to  her,  in  this  shy  and  eager  devotion  ? 
Did  it  ever  mean  very  much  to  her  to  have  made 
and  to  have  killed  a  poet  }  She  had,  at  all  events, 
the  gift  of  evoking,  and,  in  its  way,  of  retaining,  all 
that  was  most  delicate,  sensitive,  shy,  typically 
poetic,  in  a  nature  which  I  can  only  compare  to  a 
weedy  garden,  its  grass  trodden  down  by  many 
feet,  but  with  one  small,  carefully  tended  flower- 
bed, luminous  with  lilies.  I  used  to  think,  some- 
times, of  Verlaine  and  his  "girl-wife,"  the  one 
really  profound  passion,  certainly,  of  that  passionate 
career  ;  the  charming,  child-like  creature,  to  whom 
he  looked  back,  at  the  end  of  his  life,  with  an 
unchanged  tenderness  and  disappointment :  **  Vous 
n'avez  rien  compris  a  ma  simplicity,"  as  he  lamented. 

xiii 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


In  the  case  of  Dowson,  however,  there  was  a  sort  of 
trirginal  devotion,  as  to  a  Madonna  ;  and  I  think, 
had  things  gone  happily,  to  a  conventionally  happy 
ending,  he  would  have  felt  (dare  I  say  ?)  that  his 
ideal  had  been  spoilt. 

But,  for  the  good  fortune  of  poets,  things  rarely 
do  go  happily  with  them,  or  to  conventionally 
happy  endings.  He  used  to  dine  every  night  at 
the  little  restaurant,  and  I  can  always  see  the 
picture,  which  I  have  so  often  seen  through  the 
window  in  passing :  the  narrow  room  with  the 
rough  tables,  for  the  most  part  empty,  except  in  the 
innermost  corner,  where  Dowson  would  sit  with 
that  singularly  sweet  and  singularly  pathetic  smile 
on  his  lips  (a  smile  which  seemed  afraid  of  its  right 
to  be  there,  as  if  always  dreading  a  rebuff),  playing 
his  invariable  after-dinner  game  of  cards.  Friends 
would  come  in  during  the  hour  before  closing  time  ; 
and  the  girl,  her  game  of  cards  finished,  would 
quietly  disappear,  leaving  him  with  hardly  more 
than  the  desire  to  kill  another  night  as  swiftly  as 
possible. 

Meanwhile  she  and  the  mother  knew  that  the 
fragile  young^  man  who  dined  there  so  quietly  every 
day  was  apt  to  be  quite  another  sort  of  person  after 

xiv 


ERNEST  DOWSON 

fic  had  been  three  hours  outside.  It  was  only  when 
his  life  seemed  to  have  been  irretrievably  ruined 
that  Dowson  quite  deliberately  abandoned  himself 
to  that  craving  for  drink,  which  was  doubtless  lying 
in  wait  for  him  in  his  blood,  as  consumption  was 
ulso  ;  it  was  only  latterly,  when  he  had  no  longer 
any  interest  in  life,  that  he  really  wished  to  die.  But 
I  have  never  known  him  when  he  could  resist  either 
the  desire  or  the  consequences  of  drink.  Sober, 
he  was  the  most  gentle,  in  manner  the  most  gen- 
tlemanly of  men  ;  unselfish  to  a  fault,  to  the  extent 
of  weakness  ;  a  delightful  companion,  charm  itself. 
Under  the  influence  of  drink,  he  became  almost 
Jiterally  insane,  certainly  quite  irresponsible.  He 
fell  into  furious  and  unreasoning  passions ;  a 
vocabulary  unknown  to  him  at  other  times  sprang 
up  like  a  whirlwind  ;  he  seemed  always  about  to 
commit  some  act  of  absurd  violence.  Along  with 
that  forgetfulness  came  other  memories.  As  long 
as  he  was  conscious  of  himself,  there  was  but  one 
woman  for  him  in  the  world,  and  for  her  he  had 
an  infinite  tenderness  and  an  infinite  respect.  When 
that  face  faded  from  him,  he  saw  all  the  other  faces, 
and  he  saw  no  more  difference  than  between  sheep 
and  sheep.  Indeed,  that  curious  love  of  the  sordid, 

XV 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


so  common  an  affectation  of  the  modern  decadent, 
and  with  him  so  genuine,  grew  upon  him,  and 
dragged  him  into  more  and  more  sorry  corners  of 
a  life  which  was  never  exactly  "  gay  '*  to  him.  His 
father,  when  he  died,  left  him  in  possession  of  an 
old  dock,  where  for  a  time  he  lived  in  a  moulder- 
ing house,  in  that  squalid  part  of  the  East  End 
which  he  came  to  know  so  well,  and  to  feel  so 
strangely  at  home  in.  He  drank  the  poisonous 
liquors  of  those  pot-houses  which  swarm  about  the 
docks ;  he  drifted  about  in  whatever  company 
came  in  his  way  ;  he  let  heedlessness  develop  into 
a  curious  disregard  of  personal  tidiness.  In  Paris, 
Les  Halles  took  the  place  of  the  docks.  At 
Dieppe,  where  I  saw  so  much  of  him  one  summer, 
he  discovered  strange,  squalid  haunts  about  the 
harbour,  where  he  made  friends  with  amazing  inn- 
keepers, and  got  into  rows  with  the  fishermen  who 
came  in  to  drink  after  midnight.  At  Brussels, 
where  I  was  with  him  at  the  time  of  the  Kermesse, 
he  flung  himself  into  all  that  riotous  Flemish  life, 
with  a  zest  for  what  was  most  sordidly  riotous  in 
it.    It  was  his  own  way  of  escape  from  life. 

To  Dowson,  as  to  all  those  who  have  not  been 
•*  content  to  ask  unlikely  gifts  in  vain,"  nature,  life, 

xvi 


ERNEST  DOWSON 

destiny,  whatever  one  chooses  to  call  it,  that  power 
which  is  strength  to  the  strong,  presented  itself  as 
a  barrier  against  which  all  one*s  strength  only  served 
to  dash  one  to  more  hopeless  ruin.  He  was  not  a 
dreamer  ;  destiny  passes  by  the  dreamer,  sparing 
him  because  he  clamours  for  nothing.  He  was  a 
child,  clamouring  for  so  many  things,  all  impos- 
sible. With  a  body  too  weak  for  ordinary  exist- 
ence, he  desired  all  the  enchantments  of  all  the 
senses.  With  a  soul  too  shy  to  tell  its  own  secret, 
except  in  exquisite  evasions,  he  desired  the  bound- 
less confidence  of  love.  He  sang  one  tune,  over 
and  over,  and  no  one  listened  to  him.  He  had 
only  to  form  the  most  simple  wish,  and  it  was  denied 
him.  He  gave  way  to  ill-luck,  not  knowing  that 
he  was  giving  way  to  his  own  weakness,  and  he  tried 
to  escape  from  the  consciousness  of  things  as  they 
were  at  the  best,  by  voluntarily  choosing  to  accept 
them  at  their  worst.  For  with  him  it  was  always 
voluntary.  He  was  never  quite  without  money  ; 
he  had  a  little  money  of  his  own,  and  he  had  for 
many  years  a  weekly  allowance  from  a  publisher,  in 
return  for  translations  from  the  French,  or,  if  he 
chose  to  do  it,  original  work.  He  was  unhappy, 
and  he  dared  not  think.  To  unhappy  men,  thought, 

xvii 


ERNEST  DOWSON 

if  it  can  be  set  at  work  on  abstract  questions,  is 
the  only  substitute  for  happiness  ;  if  it  has  not 
strength  to  overleap  the  barrier  which  shuts  one  in 
upon  oneself,  it  is  the  one  unwearying  torture. 
Dowson  had  exquisite  sensibility,  he  vibrated  in 
harmony  with  every  delicate  emotion  ;  but  he  had 
no  outlook,  he  had  not  the  escape  of  intellect.  His 
only  escape,  then,  was  to  plunge  into  the  crowd,  to 
fancy  that  he  lost  sight  of  himself  as  he  disappeared 
from  the  sight  of  others.  The  more  he  soiled  him- 
self at  that  gross  contact,  the  further  would  he 
seem  to  be  from  what  beckoned  to  him  in  one  vain 
illusion  after  another  vain  illusion,  in  the  delicate 
places  of  the  world.    Seeing  himself  moving  to 
the  sound  of  lutes,  in  some  courtly  disguise,  down 
an  alley  of  Watteau's  Versailles,  while  he  touched 
finger-tips  with  a  divine  creature  in  rose-leaf  silks, 
what  was  there  left  for  him,  as  the  dream  obsti- 
nately refused  to  realise  itself,  but  a  blind  flight 
into  someTeniers  kitchen,  where  boors  are  making 
merry,  without  thought  of  yesterday  or  to-morrow? 
There,  perhaps,  in  that  ferment  of  animal  life,  he 
could  forget  life  as  he  dreamed  it,  with  too  faint 
hold  upon  his  dreams  to  make  dreams  come 
true. 

xviii 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


For,  there  is  not  a  dream  which  may  not  come 
true,  if  we  have  the  energy  which  makes,  or  chooses, 
our  own  fate.  We  can  always,  in  this  world,  get 
what  we  want,  if  we  will  it  intensely  and  persistently 
enough.  Whether  we  shall  get  it  sooner  or  later  is 
the  concern  of  fate  ;  but  we  shall  get  it.  It  may 
come  when  we  have  no  longer  any  use  for  it,  when 
we  have  gone  on  willing  it  out  of  habit,  or  so  as 
not  to  confess  that  we  have  failed.  But  it  will 
come.  So  few  people  succeed  greatly  because  so 
few  people  can  conceive  a  great  end,  and  work 
towards  that  end  without  deviating  and  without 
tiring.  But  we  all  know  that  the  man  who  works 
for  money  day  and  night  gets  rich  ;  and  the  man 
who  works  day  and  night  for  no  matter  what  kind 
of  material  power,  gets  the  power.  It  is  the  same 
with  the  deeper,  more  spiritual,  as  it  seems  vaguer 
issues,  which  make  for  happiness  and  every  intan- 
gible success.  It  is  only  the  dreams  of  those  light 
sleepers  who  dream  faintly  that  do  not  come  true. 

We  get  out  of  life,  all  of  us,  what  we  bring  to 
it ;  that,  and  that  only,  is  what  it  can  teach  us. 
There  are  men  whom  Dowson's  experiences  would 
have  made  great  men,  or  great  writers  ;  for  him 
they  did  very  little.    Love  and  regret,  with  here 

xix 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


and  there  the  suggestion  of  an  uncomfortlngpleasure 
snatched  by  the  way,  are  all  that  he  has  to  sing  of ; 
and  he  could  have  sung  of  them  at  much  less 
"  expense  of  spirit,"  and,  one  fancies,  without  the 
"  waste  of  shame  at  all.  Think  what  Villon  got 
directly  out  of  his  own  life,  what  Verlaine,  what 
Musset,  what  Byron,  got  directly  out  of  their  own 
lives  !  It  requires  a  strong  man  to  **  sin  strongly  ** 
and  profit  by  it.  To  Dowson  the  tragedy  of  his 
own  life  could  only  have  resulted  in  an  elegy.  "  I 
have  flung  roses,  roses,  riotously  with  the  throng," 
he  confesses,  in  his  most  beautiful  poem  ;  but  it 
was  as  one  who  flings  roses  in  a  dream,  as  he  passes 
with  shut  eyes  through  an  unsubstantial  throng. 
The  depths  into  which  he  plunged  were  always 
waters  of  oblivion,  and  he  returned  forgetting  them. 
He  is  always  a  very  ghostly  lover,  wandering  in  a 
land  of  perpetual  twilight,  as  he  holds  a  whispered 
i^olloque  sentimental  with  the  ghost  of  an  old  love  : 

^  Dans  le  vieux  pare  solitaire  et  glac^. 
Deux  spectres  ont  evoque  le  passe,** 

It  was,  indeed,  almost  a  literal  unconsciousness,  as 
of  one  who  leads  two  lives,  severed  from  one 
another  as  completely  as  sleep  is  from  waking. 

XX 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


Thus  we  get  in  his  work  very  little  of  the  personal 
appeal  of  those  to  whom  riotous  living,  misery,  a 
cross  destiny,  have  been  of  so  real  a  value.  And 
it  is  important  to  draw  this  distinction,  if  only  for 
the  benefit  of  those  young  men  who  arc  convinced 
that  the  first  step  towards  genius  is  disorder. 
Dowson  is  precisely  one  of  the  people  who  are 
pointed  out  as  confirming  this  theory.  And  yet 
Dowson  was  precisely  one  of  those  who  owed  least 
to  circumstances  ;  and,  in  succumbing  to  them,  he 
did  no  more  than  succumb  to  the  destructive  forces 
which,  shut  up  within  him,  pulled  down  the  house 
of  life  upon  his  own  head. 

A  soul  "unspotted  from  the  world,"  in  a  body 
which  one  sees  visibly  soiling  under  one's  eyes ; 
that  improbability  is  what  all  who  knew  him  saw  in 
Dowson,  as  his  youthful  physical  grace  gave  way 
year  by  year,  and  the  personal  charm  underlying  it 
remained  unchanged.  There  never  was  a  simpler 
or  more  attaching  charm,  because  there  never  was 
a  sweeter  or  more  honest  nature.  It  was  not 
because  he  ever  said  anything  particularly  clever  or 
particularly  interesting,  it  was  not  because  he  gave 
you  ideas,  or  impressed  you  by  any  strength  or 
originality,  that  you  liked  to  be  with  him  ;  but 

xxi 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


because  of  a  certain  engaging  quality,  which  seemed 
unconscious  of  itself,  which  was  never  anxious  to 
be  or  to  do  anything,  which  simply  existed,  as 
perfume  exists  in  a  flower.  Drink  was  like  a  heavy 
curtain,  blotting  out  everything  of  a  sudden  ;  when 
the  curtain  lifted,  nothing  had  changed.  Living 
always  that  double  life,  he  had  his  true  and  his 
false  aspect,  and  the  true  life  was  the  expression  of 
that  fresh,  delicate,  and  uncontaminated  nature 
which  some  of  us  knew  in  him,  and  which  remains 
for  us,  untouched  by  the  other,  in  every  line  that 
he  wrote. 


III 

Dowson  was  the  only  poet  I  ever  knew  who 
cared  more  for  his  prose  than  his  verse  ;  but  he  was 
wrong,  and  it  is  not  by  his  prose  that  he  will  live^ 
exquisite  as  that  prose  was  at  its  best.  He  wrote 
two  novels  in  collaboration  with  Mr.  Arthur 
Moore:  "A  Comedy  of  Masks,"  in  1893,  and 
"Adrian  Rome,'*  in  1899,  ^^^^  ^^^^  under  the 
influence  of  Mr.  Henry  James,  both  interesting 
because  they  were  personal  studies,  and  studies  of 

xxii 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


known  surroundings,  rather  than  for  their  actual 
value  as  novels.  A  volume  of  Stories  and  Studies 
in  Sentiment,"  called  "  Dilemmas,"  in  which  the 
influence  of  Mr.  Wedmore  was  felt  in  addition  to 
the  influence  of  Mr.  James,  appeared  in  1895. 
Several  other  short  stories,  among  his  best  work 
in  prose,  have  not  yet  been  reprinted  from  the 
Savoy.  Some  translations  from  the  French,  done 
as  hack-work,  need  not  be  mentioned  here,  though 
they  were  never  without  some  traces  of  his  peculiar 
quality  of  charm  in  language.  The  short  stories 
were  indeed  rather  studies  in  sentiment "  than 
stories ;  studies  of  singular  delicacy,  but  with  only 
a  faint  hold  on  life,  so  that  perhaps  the  best  ot 
them  was  not  unnaturally  a  study  in  the  approaches 
of  death:  The  Dying  of  Francis  Donne.'*  For 
the  most  part  they  dealt  with  the  same  motives  as 
the  poems,  hopeless  and  reverent  love,  the  ethics 
of  renunciation,  the  disappointment  of  those  who 
are  too  weak  or  too  unlucky  to  take  what  they 
desire.  They  have  a  sad  and  quiet  beauty  of  their 
own,  the  beauty  of  second  thoughts  and  subdued 
emotions,  of  choice  and  scholarly  English,  moving 
in  the  more  fluid  and  reticent  harmonies  of  prose 
almost  as  daintily  as  if  it  were  moving  to  the 

xxiii 

c 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


measure  of  verse.  Dowson  s  care  over  English 
prose  was  like  that  of  a  Frenchman  writing  his  own 
language  with  the  respect  which  Frenchmen  pay 
to  French.  Even  English  things  had  to  come  to 
him  through  France,  if  he  was  to  prize  them  very 
highly;  and  there  is  a  passage  in  Dilemmas" 
which  I  have  always  thought  very  characteristic  of 
his  own  tastes,  as  it  refers  to  an  infinitesimal 
library,  a  few  French  novels,  an  Horace,  and  some 
well-thumbed  volumes  of  the  modern  English 
poets  in  the  familiar  edition  of  Tauchnitz."  He 
was  Latin  by  all  his  affinities,  and  that  very  quality 
of  slightness,  of  parsimony  almost  in  his  dealings 
with  life  and  the  substance  of  art,  connects  him 
with  the  artists  of  Latin  races,  who  have  always 
been  so  fastidious  in  their  rejection  of  mere  nature, 
when  it  comes  too  nakedly  or  too  clamorously 
into  sight  and  hearing,  and  so  gratefully  content 
with  a  few  choice  things  faultlessly  done. 

And  Dowson,  in  his  verse  (the  Verses "  of 
1896,  The  Pierrot  of  the  Minute,"  a  dramatic 
phantasy  in  one  act,  of  1897,  the  posthumous 
volume  **  Decorations  was  the  same  scrupulous 
artist  as  in  his  prose,  and  more  felicitously  at  home 
there.  He  was  quite  Latin  in  his  feeling  for  youth, 

xxiv 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


and  death,  and  "  the  old  age  of  roses,"  and  the 
pathos  of  our  little  hour  in  which  to  live  and  love  ; 
Latin  in  his  elegance,  reticence,  and  simple  grace 
in  the  treatment  of  these  motives  ;  Latin,  finally, 
in  his  sense  of  their  sufficiency  for  the  whole  of 
one's  mental  attitude.  He  used  the  common- 
places of  poetry  frankly,  making  them  his  own  by 
his  belief  in  them :  the  Horatian  Cynara  or  Neobule 
was  still  the  natural  symbol  for  hi-m  when  he  wished 
to  be  most  personal.  I  remember  his  saying  to 
me  that  his  ideal  of  a  line  of  verse  was  the  line  of 
Poe  : 

"The  viol,  the  violet,  and  the  vine"; 

and  the  gracious,  not  remote  or  unreal  beauty, 
which  clings  about  such  words  and  such  images  as 
these,  was  always  to  him  the  true  poetical  beauty. 
There  never  was  a  poet  to  whom  verse  came  more 
naturally,  for  the  song's  sake  ;  his  theories  were 
all  aesthetic,  almost  technical  ones,  such  as  a  theory, 
indicated  by  his  preference  for  the  line  of  Poe, 
that  the  letter  **  v  "  was  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
letters,  and  could  never  be  brought  into  verse  too 
often.  For  any  more  abstract  theories  he  had 
neither  tolerance  nor  need.    Poetry  as  a  philo- 

XXV 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


sophy  did  not  exist  for  him ;  it  existed  solely  as 
the  loveliest  of  the  arts.  He  loved  the  elegance 
of  Horace,  all  that  was  most  complex  in  the 
simplicity  of  Poc,  most  birdlike  in  the  human 
melodies  of  Verlaine.  He  had  the  pure  lyric 
gift,  unweighted  or  unballasted  by  any  other 
quality  of  mind  or  emotion  ;  and  a  song,  for  him, 
was  music  first,  and  then  whatever  you  please  after- 
wards, so  long  as  it  suggested,  never  told,  some 
delicate  sentiment,  a  sigh  or  a  caress  ;  finding 
words,  at  times,  as  perfect  as  the  words  of  a 
poem  headed,  "  O  Mors  !  quam  amara  est  memoria 
tua  homini  pacem  habenti  in  substantiis  suis." 

There,  surely,  the  music  of  silence  speaks,  if  it 
has  ever  spoken.  The  words  seem  to  tremble  back 
into  the  silence  which  their  whisper  has  interrupted, 
but  not  before  they  have  created  for  us  a  mood 
such  a  mood  as  the  Venetian  Pastoral  of  Giorgione 
renders  in  painting.  Languid,  half  inarticulate, 
coming  from  the  heart  of  a  drowsy  sorrow  very 
conscious  of  itself,  and  not  less  sorrowful  because 
it  sees  its  own  face  looking  mournfully  back  out 
of  the  water,  the  song  seems  to  have  been  made  by 
some  fastidious  amateur  of  grief,  and  it  has  all  the 
sighs  and  tremors  of  the  mood,  wrought  into  a 

xxvi 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


faultless  strain  of  music.  Stepping  out  of  a  para- 
dise in  which  pain  becomes  so  lovely,  he  can  sec  the 
beauty  which  is  the  other  side  of  madness,  and,  in 
a  sonnet,  To  One  in  Bedlam,"  can  create  a  more 
positive,  a  more  poignant  mood,  with  fine  subtlety. 

Here,  in  the  moment's  intensity  of  this  comrade* 
ship  with  madness,  observe  how  beautiful  the  whole 
thing  becomes  ;  how  instinctively  the  imagination 
of  the  poet  turns  what  is  sordid  into  a  radiance, 
all  stars  and  flowers  and  the  divine  part  of  forgct- 
fulness  I  It  is  a  symbol  of  the  two  sides  of  his 
own  life  :  the  side  open  to  the  street,  and  the  side 
turned  away  from  it,  where  he  could  hush  and 
bless  himself  with  silence."  No  one  ever  wor- 
shipped beauty  more  devoutly,  and  just  as  we  see 
him  here  transfiguring  a  dreadful  thing  with  beauty, 
so  we  shall  see,  everywhere  in  his  work,  that  he 
never  admitted  an  emotion  which  he  could  not  so 
transfigure.  He  knew  his  limits  only  too  well  ;  he 
knew  that  the  deeper  and  graver  things  of  life  were 
for  the  most  part  outside  the  circle  of  his  magic  ; 
he  passed  them  by,  leaving  much  of  himself  unex- 
pressed, because  he  would  permit  himself  to  express 
nothing  imperfectly,  or  according  to  anything  but 
his  own  conception  of  the  dignity  of  poetry.  In 
xxvii 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


the  lyric  in  which  he  has  epitomised  himself  and  his 
whole  life,  a  lyric  which  is  certainly  one  of  the 
greatest  lyrical  poems  of  our  time,  "  Non  sum 
qualis  eram  bonas  sub  regno  Cynaras/*  he  has  for 
once  said  everything,  and  he  has  said  it  to  an  intoxi- 
cating and  perhaps  immortal  music. 

Here,  perpetuated  by  some  unique  energy  of  a 
temperament  rarely  so  much  the  master  of  itself,  is 
the  song  of  passion  and  the  passions,  at  their  eternal 
war  in  the  soul  which  they  quicken  or  deaden,  and 
in  the  body  which  they  break  down  between  them. 
In  the  second  book,  the  book  of  "  Decorations," 
there  are  a  few  pieces  which  repeat,  only  more 
faintly,  this  very  personal  note.  Dowson  could 
never  have  developed  ;  he  had  already  said,  in  his 
first  book  of  verse,  all  that  he  had  to  say.  Had  he 
lived,  had  he  gone  on  writing,  he  could  only  have 
echoed  himself ;  and  probably  it  would  have  been 
the  less  essential  part  of  himself ;  his  obligation  to 
Swinburne,  always  evident,  increasing  as  his  own 
inspiration  failed  him  He  was  always  without 
ambition,  writing  to  please  his  own  fastidious  taste, 
with  a  kind  of  proud  humility  in  his  attitude 
towards  the  public,  not  expecting  or  requiring 
recognition.    He  died  obscure,  having  ceased  to 

xxviii 


ERNEST  DOWSON 


care  even  for  the  delightful  labour  of  writing.  He 
died  young,  worn  out  by  what  was  never  really  life 
to  him,  leaving  a  little  verse  which  has  the  pathos 
of  things  too  young  and  too  frail  ever  to  grow 
old. 

ARTHUR  SYMONS. 

1900. 


CONTENTS 


PACK 

In  Preface  :  for  Adelaide      •       .       «       .       .  xxxvii 

A  Coronal             .......  3 

Verses  : 

Nuns  of  the  Perpetual  Adoration       ...  5 

Villanelle  of  Sunset  ......  7 

My  Lady  April   9 

To  One  in  Bedlam  10 

Ad  Domnulam  Suam        .       ,       .       .       .  i ' 

Amor  Umbratilis      .        ,       ,       ,       .        ,  13 

Amor  Profanus .        .        ,        ,        .        ,        .  15 

Villanelle  of  Marguerites   ,       ;       ,       .       .  17 

Yvonne  of  Brittany  .        ,        ,        ,        ,        ,  19 

Bcnedictio  Domini    •        ,        ,        ,       ,        ,  21 

Growth   .        .       ,        ,       .       •       •       .  22 

Ad  Manus  Puellae    .       .       ,        .        ,       .  23 

Flos  Lunae       .        .        .        .        .        .        •  25 

Non  sum  qualis  eram  bonae  sub  regno  Cynarae   ,  27 

Vanitas   .29 

xxxi 


CONTENTS 


Verses  :  pagb 

Exile      ••••••••  3) 

Spleen   33 

O  Mors !  quam  amara  est  memoria  tua  homini 

pacem  habenti  in  substantiis  suis ...  34 

**  You  would  have  understood  me,  had  you  waited  "  36 

April  Love   38 

Vain  Hope      ...       c       ...  39 

Vain  Resolves  •       ,       .       ,       ,       ,       ,  41 

A  Requiem      ,   43 

Beata  Solitude  ••.>•..  45 

Terre  Promise  47 

Autumnal   48 

In  Tempore  Senectutis   50 

Villanelle  of  his  Lady's  Treasures       ,       ,       ,  52 

Gray  Nights     •••••••  54 

Vesperal  .       .       •       •       1       .       •       •  55 

The  Garden  of  Shadow     •       •       ,       ,       ,  57 

Soli  cantare  periti  Arcades   58 

On  the  Birth  of  a  Friend's  Child       ...  60 

Extreme  Unction     .       •       •       •       •       ,  61 

Amantium  Irae        ••••••  63 

Impenitentia  Ultima        «       •       •       •       •  65 

A  Valediction  67 

Sapientia  Lunae  68 

xxxii 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Verses  : 

**  C<;asc  smiling,  Dear  !  a  little  while  be  sad  "  ,  70 
Seraphita  .  72 
Epigram  ,  ,  ,  ,  ,  .  .  .  73 
Quid  non  speremus,  Amantes  ?  ,  .  ,  .  74 
Chanson  sans  Paroles  76 

The  Pierrot  of  th    Minute  81 

Decorations  : 

Beyond  ,  «  ,  ,  ,  ,  ,  .118 
De  Amore       .       .       ,       ,       .       ,  .119 

The  Dead  Child  122 

Carthusians      .       •       .       ,        .       *  .124 

The  Three  Witches  127 

Villanelle  of  the  Poet's  Road     ,  .  ,129 

Villanelle  of  Acheron  ,  ,  .  .  .131 
Saint  Germain-en-Laye    ,       .       .       ,       •  ^33 

After  Paul  Verlaine — I  134 

After  Paul  Verlaine — II    ,       .       .       ,  ,136 

After  Paul  Verlaine — III  138 

After  Paul  Verlaine — IV  139 

To  his  Mistress  •  .  •  •  ,  ,140 
Jadis  142 
In  a  Breton  Cemetery  ,  .  .  ,  .143 
To  William  Theodore  Peters  on  his  Renaissance 

Cloak  ,       .  144 

xxxiii 


CONTENTS 

PAGB 

Decorations  : 

The  Sea-Change  .  .  ,  ,  »  ,146 
Dregs  148 
A  Song  149 
Breton  Afternoon  ,  ,  .  ,  ,  ,151 
Venite  Descendamus  .        ,        ,  .153 

Transition       ,       ,       ,       .       ,       ,  .154 

Exchanges   .155 

To  a  Lady  asking  Foolish  Questions   ,        ,  ,156 

Rondeau  158 

Moritura  •159 

Libera  Me  161 
To  a  Lost  Love       ...  ,       ,  163 

Wisdom  .       .       .       .       .       .       ,  .164 

In  Spring  •,165 

A  Last  Word  166 


XXX!V 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Ernest  Dowson  Fronthpuct 

{From  a  Drawing  by  Mr.  William  Rot  hens  teiny  by 
ivhoie  courtesy  it  has  been  reproduced) 

Ernest  Dowson  To  face  pan  vi 

{From  a  Portrait  taken  presumably  whilst  h«  ivas  at 
Oxford) 

The  following  designs  are  by  the  late  Aubrey  Beardsley 
and  Appeared  in  the  original  edition  of  "  The  Pierrot 
if  the  Minute published  in  1899 
Initial  Page  81 

Half  Title  T^faccpase  %i 

Frontispiece  „  86 

Heading  .«••«..  „  100 
Cul  de  Larapc    «       .       ,       •       •       .        „  116 


XXXV 


IN  PREFACE:    FOR  ADELAIDE 


TO  you,  who  are  my  verses,  as  on  some  very 
future  day,  if  you  ever  care  to  read  them, 
you  will  understand,  would  it  not  be  some- 
what trivial  to  dedicate  any  one  verse,  as  I  may 
do,  in  all  humility,  to  my  friends  ?  Trivial,  too, 
perhaps,  only  to  name  you  even  here  ?  Trivial, 
presumptuous  ?  For  I  need  not  write  your  name 
for  you  at  least  to  know  that  this  and  all  my  work 
is  made  for  you  in  the  first  place,  and  I  need  not 
to  be  reminded  by  my  critics  that  I  have  no  silver 
tongue  such  as  were  fit  to  praise  you.  So  for  once 
you  shall  go  indedicate,  if  not  quite  anonymous  ; 
and  I  will  only  commend  my  little  book  to  you  in 
sentences  far  beyond  my  poor  compass  which  will 
help  you  perhaps  to  be  kind  to  it  : 

**  Votre  personney  vos  moindres  mouvements  me 
semblaient  avoir  dans  le  monde  une  importance  extra- 
humaine,     Mon  ccsur  comme  de  la  poussiere  se 
xxxvii 


IN  PREFACE:  FOR  ADELAIDE 

soulevait  derriere  vos  pas.  Vous  me  faisiez  Teffet 
d un  clair-de-lune  par  une  nuit  d'etS^  quand  tout  est 
parfumSy  ombres  douces^  blancheurSy  infini ;  et  les 
dMices  de  la  chair  et  de  Vdme  etaient  contenues  pour 
moi  dans  votre  mm  que  je  me  repetais  en  tachant  de 
le  baiser  sur  mes  levres, 

*^  Quelquefois  vos  paroles  me  reviennent  comme  un 
echo  lointaiUy  comme  le  son  dune  cloche  apporte  par  le 
vent;  et  il  me  semble  que  vous  etes  la  quand  je  lis 
aes  passages  de  r amour  dans  les  livres,  ,  .  .  ^out  ce 
qiion  y  blame  d'exageriy  vous  me  Vavez  fait 
r  ess  entity 

PONT-AVEN,  FlNISxilRE,   1 896. 


3CJCXV111 


VERSES 


F'itae  summa  hrevis  spem  nos  vetat  tncohare  longam 

They  are  not  long,  the  weeping  and  the  laughter, 

Love  and  desire  and  hate  : 
I  think  they  have  no  portion  in  us  after 
We  pass  the  gate. 

They  are  not  long,  the  days  of  wine  and  roses  : 

Out  of  a  misty  dream 
Our  path  emerges  for  a  while,  then  closes 
Within  a  dream. 


2 


A  CORONAL 


WiTH  His  songs  and  Her  days  to  His  Ladt 
AND  TO  Love 

Violets  and  leaves  of  vine, 
Into  a  frail,  fair  wreath 

We  gather  and  entwine  : 
A  wreath  for  Love  to  wear, 
Fragrant  as  his  own  breath, 

To  crown  his  brow  divine, 
All  day  till  night  is  near. 

Violets  and  leaves  of  vine 

We  gather  and  entwine. 

Violets  and  leaves  of  vine 
For  I.ove  that  lives  a  day, 

We  gather  and  entwine. 
All  day  till  Love  is  dead, 
Till  eve  falls,  cold  and  gray, 
3 


A  CORONAL 


These  blossoms,  yours  and  mine, 

Love  wears  upon  his  head. 
Violets  and  leaves  of  vine 
We  gather  and  entwine. 

Violets  and  leaves  of  vine, 

For  Love  when  poor  Love  dies 

We  gather  and  entwine. 
This  wreath  that  lives  a  day 
Over  his  pale,  cold  eyes. 

Kissed  shut  by  Proserpine, 
At  set  of  sun  we  lay  : 

Violets  and  leaves  of  vine 

We  gather  and  entwine. 


4 


NUNS  OF  THE  PERPETUAL 
ADORATION 


Calm,  sad,  secure  ;  behind  high  convent  walls, 
These  watch  the  sacred  lamp,  these  watch  and 
pray  : 

And  it  is  one  with  them  when  evening  falls, 
And  one  with  them  the  cold  return  of  day. 

These  heed  not  time  ;  their  nights  and  days  they 
make 

Into  a  long,  returning  rosary, 
Whereon  their  lives  are  threaded  for  Christ's  sake; 
Meekness  and  vigilance  and  chastity. 

A.  vowed  patrol,  in  silent  companies, 

Life-long  they  keep  before  the  living  Christ. 

In  the  dim  church,  their  prayers  and  penances 
Are  fragrant  incense  to  the  Sacrificed. 

5 


NUNS  OF  THE  ADORATION 


Outside,  the  world  is  wild  and  passionate ; 

Man's  weary  laughter  and  his  sick  despair 
Entreat  at  their  impenetrable  gate : 

They  heed  no  voices  in  their  dream  of  prayer. 

They  saw  the  glory  of  the  world  displayed  ; 

They  saw  the  bitter  of  it,  and  the  sweet ; 
They  knew  the  roses  of  the  world  should  fade, 

And  be  trod  under  by  the  hurrying  feet. 

Therefore  they  rather  put  away  desire, 

And  crossed  their  hands  and  came  to  sanctuary 

And  veiled  their  heads  and  put  on  coarse  attire  ; 
Because  their  comeliness  was  vanity. 

And  there  they  rest ;  they  have  serene  insight 

Of  the  illuminating  dawn  to  be : 
Mary's  sweet  Star  dispels  for  them  the  night, 

The  proper  darkness  of  humanity. 

Calm,  sad,  secure  ;  with  faces  worn  and  mild  : 
Surely  their  choice  of  vigil  is  the  best  ? 

Yea  1  for  our  roses  fade,  the  world  is  wild  ; 
But  there,  beside  the  altar,  there,  is  rest. 


6 


VILLANELLE  OF  SUNSET 


Come  hither,  Child  !  and  rest : 
This  is  the  end  of  day, 
Behold  the  weary  West! 

Sleep  rounds  with  equal  zest 
Man*s  toil  and  children's  play  : 
Come  hither,  Child  !  and  rest. 

My  white  bird,  seek  thy  nest, 
Thy  drooping  head  down  lay  : 
Behold  the  weary  West  1 

Now  are  the  flowers  confcst 
Of  slumber  :  sleep,  as  they  I 
Come  hither,  Child  I  and  rest. 

Now  eve  is  manifest, 
And  homeward  lies  our  way : 
Behold  the  weary  West  I 

7 


VILLANELLE  OF  SUNSET 

Tired  flower  !  upon  my  breast, 
I  would  wear  thee  alway  : 

Come  hither,  Child  !  and  rest ; 

Behold,  the  weary  West  I 


8 


MY  LADY  APRIL 


Dew  on  her  robe  and  on  her  tangled  hair ; 

Twin  dewdrops  for  her  eyes ;  behold  her  pass, 
With  dainty  step  brushing  the  young,  green  grass, 

The  while  she  trills  some  high,  fantastic  air, 

Full  of  all  feathered  sweetness  :  she  is  fair, 
And  all  her  flower-like  beauty,  as  a  glass, 
Mirrors  out  hope  and  love  :  and  still,  alas  I 

Traces  of  tears  her  languid  lashes  wear. 

Say,  doth  she  weep  for  very  wantonness  ? 
Or  is  it  that  she  dimly  doth  foresee 

Across  her  youth  the  joys  grow  less  and  less, 
The  burden  of  the  days  that  are  to  be  : 
Autumn  and  withered  leaves  and  vanity, 

And  winter  bringing  end  in  barrenness. 


9 


TO  ONE  IN  BEDLAM 


With  delicate,  mad  hands,  behind  his  sordid  bars, 
Surely  he  hath  his  posies,  which  they  tear  and 
twine  ; 

Those  scentless  wisps  of  straw,  that  miserably  line 
His  strait,  caged  universe,  whereat  the  dull  world 
stares. 

Pedant  and  pitiful.    O,  how  his  rapt  gaze  wars 
With  their  stupidity  1  Know  they  what  dreams 
divine 

Lift  his  long,  laughing  reveries  like  enchaunted  wine, 
And  make  his  melancholy  germane  to  the  stars? 

O  lamentable  brother  !  if  those  pity  thee, 
Am  I  not  fain  of  all  thy  lone  eyes  promise  me  ; 
Half  a  fool's  kingdom,  far  from  men  who  sow  and 
reap, 

All  their  days,  vanity  ?  Better  than  mortal  flowers, 
Thy  moon-kissed  roses  seem  :  better  than  love  or 
sleep, 

The  star-crowned  solitude  of  thine  oblivious  hours! 

lO 


AD  DOMNULAM  SUAM 


Little  lady  of  my  heart  I 

Just  a  little  longer, 
Love  me  :  we  will  pass  and  part, 

Ere  this  love  grow  stronger. 

I  have  loved  thee,  Child  I  too  well, 
To  do  aught  but  leave  thee  : 

Nay  I  my  lips  should  never  tell 
Any  tale,  to  grieve  thee. 

Little  lady  of  my  heart ! 

Just  a  little  longer, 
I  may  love  thee  :  we  will  part, 

Ere  my  love  grow  stronger. 

Soon  thou  leavest  fairy-land  ; 

Darker  grow  thy  tresses  : 
Soon  no  more  of  hand  in  hand  ; 

Soon  no  more  caresses  1 
II 


AD  DOMNULAM  SUAM 

Little  lady  of  my  heart  1 

Just  a  little  longer, 
Be  a  child  :  then,  we  will  part. 

Ere  this  love  grow  stronger. 


/ 


12 


AMOR  UMBRATILIS 


A  GIFT  of  Silence,  sweet ! 

Who  may  not  ever  hear  : 
To  lay  down  at  your  unobservant  feet, 

Is  all  the  gift  I  bear. 

I  have  no  songs  to  sing, 

That  you  should  heed  or  know  : 
I  have  no  lilies,  in  full  hands,  to  fling 

Across  the  path  you  go. 

I  cast  my  flowers  away, 

Blossoms  unmeet  for  you  ! 
The  garland  I  have  gathered  in  my  day : 

My  rosemary  and  rue. 

I  watch  you  pass  and  pass, 

Serene  and  cold  :  I  lay 
My  lips  upon  your  trodden,  daisied  grass, 

And  turn  my  life  away. 

13 


AMOR  UMBRATILIS 

Yea,  for  1  cast  you,  sweet ! 

This  one  gift,  you  shall  take  : 
Like  ointment,  on  your  unobservant  feet 
My  silence,  for  your  sake. 


14 


AMOR  PROFANUS 


Beyond  the  pale  of  memory, 

In  some  mysterious  dusky  grove  ; 

A  place  of  shadows  utterly, 

Where  never  coos  the  turtle-dove, 

A  world  forgotten  of  the  sun  : 

I  dreamed  we  met  when  day  was  done, 

And  marvelled  at  our  ancient  love. 

Met  there  by  chance,  long  kept  apart, 

We  wandered  through  the  darkling  glades  ; 

And  that  old  language  of  the  heart 

We  sought  to  speak  :  alas  !  poor  shades  1 

Over  our  pallid  lips  had  run 

The  waters  of  oblivion, 

Which  crown  all  loves  of  men  or  maids. 

In  vain  we  stammered  :  from  afar 
Our  old  desire  shone  cold  and  dead  : 
That  time  was  distant  as  a  star, 
When  eyes  were  bright  and  lips  were  red. 

15 


AMOR  PROFANUS 


And  still  we  went  with  downcast  eye 
And  no  delight  in  being  nigh, 
Poor  shadows  most  uncomforted. 

Ah,  Lalage  !  while  life  is  ours, 
Hoard  not  thy  beauty  rose  and  white, 
But  pluck  the  pretty,  fleeting  flowers 
That  deck  our  little  path  of  light 
For  all  too  soon  we  twain  shall  tread 
The  bitter  pastures  of  the  dead  : 
Estranged,  sad  spectres  of  the  night. 


i6 


VILLANELLE  OF  MARGUERITES 


^^A  LmiEy  passionately y  not  at  all?  " 
She  casts  the  snowy  petals  on  the  air  : 
And  what  care  we  how  many  petals  fall  I 

Nay,  wherefore  seek  the  seasons  to  forestall  ? 
It  is  but  playing,  and  she  will  not  care, 
A  little,  passionately,  not  at  all ! 

She  would  not  answer  us  if  we  should  call 
Across  the  years  :  her  visions  are  too  fair  ; 
And  what  care  we  how  many  petals  fall  ! 

She  knows  us  not,  nor  recks  if  she  enthrall 
With  voice  and  eyes  and  fashion  of  her  hair, 
A  little,  passionately,  not  at  all  1 

Knee-deep  she  goes  in  meadow  grasses  tall, 
Kissed  by  the  daisies  that  her  fingers  tear  : 
And  what  care  wc  how  many  petals  fall  ! 

17  B 


VILLANELLE  OF  MARGUERITES 

We  pass  and  go  :  but  she  shall  not  recall 
What  men  we  were,  nor  all  she  made  us  bear : 
little,  passionately^  not  at  aU  1 " 
And  what  care  we  how  many  petals  fall  I 


I8 


YVONNE  OF  BRITTANY 


In  your  mother's  apple-orchard, 

Just  a  year  ago,  last  spring  : 
Do  you  remember,  Yvonne  ! 

The  dear  trees  lavishing 
Rain  of  their  starry  blossoms 

To  make  you  a  coronet  ? 
Do  you  ever  remember,  Yvonne  ? 

As  I  remember  yet. 

In  your  mother's  apple-orchard, 

When  the  world  was  left  behind  : 
You  were  shy,  so  shy,  Yvonne  ! 

But  your  eyes  were  calm  and  kind 
We  spoke  of  the  apple  harvest. 

When  the  cider  press  is  set. 
And  such-like  trifles,  Yvonne  1 

That  doubtless  you  forget. 
19 


YVONNE  OF  BRITTANY 


In  the  still,  soft  Breton  twilight, 

We  were  silent  ;  words  were  few, 
Till  your  mother  came  out  chiding, 

For  the  grass  was  bright  with  dew : 
But  I  know  your  heart  was  beating, 

Like  a  fluttered,  frightened  dove. 
Do  you  ever  remember,  Yvonne  T 

That  first  faint  flush  of  love  ? 

In  the  fulness  of  midsummer, 

When  the  apple-bloom  was  shed. 
Oh,  brave  was  your  surrender. 

Though  shy  the  words  you  said. 
I  was  glad,  so  glad,  Yvonne  ! 

To  have  led  you  home  at  last ; 
Do  you  ever  remember,  Yvonne  I 

How  swiftly  the  days  passed  ? 

In  your  mother's  apple-orchard 

It  is  grown  too  dark  to  stray, 
There  is  none  to  chide  you,  Yvonne  ! 

You  are  over  far  away. 
There  is  dew  on  your  grave  grass,  Yvonne : 

But  your  feet  it  shall  not  wet : 
No,  you  never  remember,  Yvonne  1 

And  I  shall  soon  forget. 


BENEDICTIO  DOMINI 


Without,  the  sullen  noises  of  the  street ! 

The  voice  of  London,  inarticulate, 
Hoarse  and  blaspheming,  surges  in  to  meet 

The  silent  blessing  of  the  Immaculate. 

Dark  is  the  church,  and  dim  the  worshippers, 
Hushed  with  bowed  heads  as  though  by  some 
old  spell, 

While  through  the  incense-laden  air  there  stirs 
The  admonition  of  a  silver  beU. 

Dark  is  the  church,  save  where  the  altar  stands, 
Dressed  like  a  bride,  illustrious  with  light. 

Where  one  old  priest  exalts  with  tremulous  hands 
The  one  true  solace  of  man's  fallen  plight. 

Strange  silence  here  :  without,  the  sounding  street 
Heralds  the  world's  swift  passage  to  the  fire  : 

O  Benediction,  perfect  and  complete  ! 

When  shall  men  cease  to  suffer  and  desire  ? 

21 


GROWTH 


I  WATCHED  the  glory  of  her  childhood  change, 
Half-sorrowful  to  find  the  child  I  knew, 

(Loved  long  ago  in  lily-time) 
Become  a  maid,  mysterious  and  strange, 
With  fair,  pure  eyes — dear  eyes,  but  not  the  eyes 
I  knew 
Of  old,  in  the  olden  time  ! 

Till  on  my  doubting  soul  the  ancient  good 
Of  her  dear  childhood  in  the  new  disguise 

Dawned,  and  I  hastened  to  adore 
The  glory  of  her  waking  maidenhood. 
And  found  the  old  tenderness  within  her  deepening 
eyes, 

But  kinder  than  before. 


22 


AD  MANUS  PUELLAE 

I  WAS  always  a  lover  of  ladies'  hands  I 
Or  ever  mine  heart  came  here  to  tryst, 

For  the  sake  of  your  carved  white  hands'commands ; 
The  tapering  fingers,  the  dainty  wrist ; 
The  hands  of  a  girl  were  what  I  kissed. 

I  remember  an  hand  like  a  fleur-de-lys 

When  it  slid  from  its  silken  sheath,  her  glove  ; 

With  its  odours  passing  ambergris  : 
And  that  was  the  empty  husk  of  a  love. 
Oh,  how  shall  I  kiss  your  hands  enough  ? 

They  are  pale  with  the  pallor  of  ivories  ; 

But  they  blush  to  the  tips  like  a  curled  sea-shell : 

What  treasure,  in  kingly  treasuries, 
Of  gold,  and  spice  for  the  thurible, 
Is  sweet  as  her  hands  to  hoard  and  tell? 

23 


AD  MANUS  PUELLAE 


I  know  not  the  way  from  your  finger-tips, 
Nor  how  I  shall  gain  the  higher  lands, 

The  citadel  of  your  sacred  lips  : 

I  am  captive  still  of  my  pleasant  bands. 
The  hands  of  a  girl,  and  most  your  hands. 


24 


FLOS  LUNAE 


I  WOULD  not  alter  thy  cold  eyes, 
Nor  trouble  the  calm  fount  of  speech 
With  aught  of  passion  or  surprise. 
The  heart  of  thee  I  cannot  reach  : 
I  would  not  alter  thy  cold  eyes  ! 

I  would  not  alter  thy  cold  eyes ; 

Nor  have  thee  smile,  nor  make  thee  weep  : 

Though  all  my  life  droops  down  and  dies, 

Desiring  thee,  desiring  sleep, 

I  would  not  alter  thy  cold  eyes. 

I  would  not  alter  thy  cold  eyes  ; 
I  would  not  change  thee  if  I  might, 
To  whom  my  prayers  for  incense  rise, 
Daughter  of  dreams  !  my  moon  of  night  I 
I  would  not  alter  thy  cold  eyes. 

25 


FLOS  LUNAE 


I  would  not  alter  thy  cold  eyes, 
With  trouble  of  the  human  heart : 
Within  their  glance  my  spirit  lies, 
A  frozen  thing,  alone,  apart ; 
I  would  not  alter  thy  cold  eyea» 


26 


NON  SUM  QUALIS  ERAM  BONAE 
SUB  REGNO  CYNARAE 


Last  night,  ah,  yesternight,  betwixt  her  lips  and 
mine 

There  fell  thy  shadow,  Cynara  !  thy  breath  was  shed 
Upon  my  soul  between  the  kisses  and  the  wine  ; 
And  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

Yea,  I  was  desolate  and  bowed  my  head : 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara  1  in  my  fashion. 

All  night  upon  mine  heart  I  felt  her  warm  heart 
beat. 

Night-long  within  mine  arms  in  love  and  sleep  she 
lay  ; 

Surely  the  kisses  of  her  bought  red  mouth  were 
sweet ; 

But  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion. 

When  I  awoke  and  found  the  dawn  was  gray : 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara !  in  my  fashion. 

27 


NON  SUM  QUALIS 


I  have  forgot  much,  Cynara  !  gone  with  the  wind, 
Flung  roses,  roses  riotously  with  the  throng, 
Dancing,  to  put  thy  pale,  lost  lilies  out  of  mind  ; 
But  I  was  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

Yea,  all  the  time,  because  the  dance  was  long  : 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara  I  in  my  fashion. 

I  cried  for  madder  music  and  for  stronger  wine, 
But  when  the  feast  is  finished  and  the  lamps  expire, 
Then  falls  thy  shadow,  Cynara  I  the  night  is  thine ; 
And  I  am  desolate  and  sick  of  an  old  passion, 

Yea,  hungry  for  the  lips  of  my  desire  : 
I  have  been  faithful  to  thee,  Cynara !  in  my  fashion. 


28 


VANITAS 


Beyond  the  need  of  weeping, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  hands, 

May  she  be  quietly  sleeping, 
In  what  dim  nebulous  lands  ? 

Ah,  she  who  understands  1 

The  long,  long  winter  weather, 
These  many  years  and  days, 

Since  she,  and  Death,  together, 
Left  me  the  wearier  ways: 

And  now,  these  tardy  bays  I 

The  crown  and  victor's  token  : 
How  are  they  worth  to-day  ? 

The  one  word  left  unspoken. 
It  were  late  now  to  say  ; 

But  cast  the  palm  away  1 
29 


VANITAS 


For  once,  ah  once,  to  meet  her, 
Drop  laurel  from  tired  hands  : 

Her  cypress  were  the  sweeter, 
In  her  oblivious  lands  : 

Haply  she  understands  ! 

Yet,  crossed  that  weary  river, 

In  some  ulterior  land, 
Or  anywhere,  or  ever, 

Will  she  stretch  out  a  hand? 
And  will  she  understand  ? 


3<3 


EXILE 


By  the  sad  waters  of  separation 

Where  we  have  wandered  by  divers  ways, 
I  have  but  the  shadow  and  imitation 

Of  the  old  memorial  days. 

In  music  I  have  no  consolation, 
No  roses  are  pale  enough  for  me  ; 

The  sound  of  the  waters  of  separation 
Surpasseth  roses  and  melody. 

By  the  sad  waters  of  separation 
Dimly  I  hear  from  an  hidden  place 

The  sigh  of  mine  ancient  adoration  : 
Hardly  can  I  remember  your  face. 

If  you  be  dead,  no  proclamation 

Sprang  to  me  over  the  waste,  gray  sea  : 

Living,  the  watei-s  of  separation 
Sever  for  ever  your  soul  from  me. 
31 


EXILE 

No  man  knoweth  our  desolation ; 

Memory  pales  of  the  old  delight ; 
While  the  sad  waters  of  separation 

Bear  us  on  to  the  ultimate  night. 


32 


SPLEEN 

I  WAS  not  sorrowful,  I  could  not  weep, 
And  all  my  memories  were  put  to  sleep. 

I  watched  the  river  grow  more  white  and  strange, 
All  day  till  evening  I  watched  it  change. 

All  day  till  evening  I  watched  the  rain 
Beat  wearily  upon  the  window  pane, 

I  was  not  sorrowful,  but  only  tired 
Of  everything  that  ever  I  desired. 

Her  lips,  her  eyes,  all  day  became  to  me 
The  shadow  of  a  shadow  utterly. 

All  day  mine  hunger  for  her  heart  became 
Oblivion,  until  the  evening  came. 

And  left  me  sorrowful,  inclined  to  weep, 
With  all  my  memories  that  could  not  sleep. 

33  c 


O  MORS!  QUAM  AMARA  EST 
MEMORIA  TUA  HOMINI  PACEM 
HABENTI  IN  SUBSTANTIIS  SUIS 

Exceeding  sorrow 

Consumeth  my  sad  heart  1 

Because  to-morrow 
We  must  depart, 

Now  is  exceeding  sorrow 
All  my  part  I 

Give  over  playing, 

Cast  thy  viol  away : 
Merely  laying 

Thine  head  my  way  : 
Prithee,  give  over  playing, 

Grave  or  gay. 


Be  no  word  spoken  ; 

Weep  nothing  :  let  a  pale 

34 


O  MORS! 


Silence,  unbroken 

Silence  prevail  ! 
Prithee,  be  no  word  spoken, 

Lest  I  fail ! 

Forget  to-morrow  ! 

Weep  nothing  :  only  la^ 
In  silent  sorrow 

Thine  head  my  way : 
Let  us  forget  to-morrow, 

This  one  day  1 


3f 


Ahy  dans  ces  mornes  sejours 
Les  jamais  sont  Us  toujours 

Paul  Verlainh 

You  would  have  understood  me,  had  you  waited  ; 

I  could  have  loved  you,  dear  !  as  well  as  he  : 
Had  we  not  been  impatient,  dear  !  and  fated 
Always  to  disagree. 

What  is  the  use  of  speech  ?   Silence  were  fitter  : 
Lest  we  should  still  be  wishing  things  unsaid. 
Though  all  the  words  we  ever  spake  were  bitter, 
Shall  I  reproach  you  dead  ? 

Nay,  let  this  earth,  your  portion,  likewise  cover 

All  the  old  anger,  setting  us  apart : 
Always,  in  all,  in  truth  was  I  your  lover  ; 
Always,  I  held  your  heart. 

I  have  met  other  women  who  were  tender, 

As  you  were  cold,  dear !  with  a  grace  as  rare. 
Think  you,  I  turned  to  them,  or  made  surrender, 
I  who  had  found  you  fair  ? 

36 


YOU  WOULD  HAVE  UNDERSTOOD  ME 

Had  we  been  patient,  dear !  ah,  had  you  waited, 

I  had  fought  death  for  you,  better  than  he : 
But  from  the  very  first,  dear !  we  were  fated 
Always  to  disagree. 

Late,  late,  I  come  to  you,  now  death  discloses 

Love  that  in  life  was  not  to  be  our  part : 
On  your  low  lying  mound  between  the  roses, 
Sadly  I  cast  my  heart. 

I  would  not  waken  you  :  nay  !  this  is  fitter ; 

Death  and  the  darkness  give  you  unto  me  ; 
Here  we  who  loved  so,  were  so  cold  and  bitter. 
Hardly  can  disagree. 


37 


APRIL  LOVE 


We  have  walked  in  Love*s  land  a  little  way, 

We  have  learnt  his  lesson  a  little  while, 
And  shall  we  not  part  at  the  end  of  day, 
With  a  sigh,  a  smile  ? 

A.  little  while  in  the  shine  of  the  sun, 

We  were  twined  together,  joined  lips,  forgot 
How  the  shadows  fall  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  when  Love  is  not. 

We  have  made  no  vows — there  will  none  be  broke, 

Our  love  was  free  as  the  wind  on  the  hill. 
There  was  no  word  said  we  need  wish  unspoke, 
We  have  wrought  no  ill. 

So  shall  we  not  part  at  the  end  of  day, 

Who  have  loved  and  lingered  a  little  while, 
Join  lips  for  the  last  time,  go  our  way, 
With  a  sigh,  a  smile  ? 

38 


VAIN  HOPE 


Sometimes,  to  solace  my  sad  heart,  1  say, 
Though  late  it  be,  though  lily-time  be  past, 
Though  all  the  summer  skies  be  overcast, 

Haply  1  will  go  down  to  her,  some  day. 
And  cast  my  rests  of  life  before  her  feet, 

That  she  may  have  her  will  of  me,  being  so  sweet 
And  none  gainsay ! 

So  might  she  look  on  me  with  pitying  eyes. 
And  lay  calm  hands  of  healing  on  my  head  : 
"  Because  of  thy  long  pains  be  comforted ; 

For  /,  even  /,  am  Love :  sad  souly  arise  !  *' 
So,  for  her  graciousness,  I  might  at  last 

Gaze  on  the  very  face  of  Love,  and  hold  Him  fast 
In  no  disguise. 

Haply,  I  said,  she  will  take  pity  on  me. 
Though  late  I  come,  long  after  lily-time, 
With  burden  of  waste  days  and  drifted  rhyme  : 

Her  kind,  calm  eyes,  down  drooping  maidenly, 

39 


VAIN  HOPE 

Shall  change,  grow  soft:  there  yet  is  time, 
meseems, 

I  said,  for  solace ;  though  I  know  these  things  are 
dreams 
And  may  not  be  I 


40 


VAIN  RESOLVES 


I  SAID  :  **  There  is  an  end  of  my  desire  : 
Now  have  I  sown,  and  I  have  harvested, 

And  these  are  ashes  of  an  ancient  fire, 
Which,  verily,  shall  not  be  quickened. 

Now  will  I  take  me  to  a  place  of  peace, 
Forget  mine  heart's  desire  ; 

In  solitude  and  prayer,  work  out  my  souFs  release. 

"  I  shall  forget  her  eyes,  how  cold  they  were  ; 

Forget  her  voice,  how  soft  it  was  and  low, 
With  all  my  singing  that  she  did  not  hear, 

And  all  my  service  that  she  did  not  know. 
I  shall  not  hold  the  merest  memory 

Of  any  days  that  were, 
Within  those  solitudes  where  I  will  fasten  me." 

And  once  she  passed,  and  once  she  raised  her  eyes, 
And  smiled  for  courtesy,  and  nothing  said : 

41 


VAIN  RESOLVES 


And  suddenly  the  old  flame  did  uprise, 

And  all  my  dead  desire  was  quickened. 
Yea !  as  it  hath  been,  it  shall  ever  be. 

Most  passionless,  pure  eyes  ! 
Which  never  shall  grow  soft,  nor  change,  nor  pity 
me. 


42 


A  REQUIEM 


Neobule,  being  tired, 

Far  too  tired  to  laugh  or  weep, 

From  the  hours,  rosy  and  gray, 

Hid  her  golden  face  away. 

Neobule,  fain  of  sleep, 

Slept  at  last  as  she  desired ! 

Neobule  !  is  it  well, 
That  you  haunt  the  hollow  lands. 
Where  the  poor,  dead  people  stray, 
Ghostly,  pitiful  and  gray. 
Plucking,  with  their  spectral  hands, 
Scentless  blooms  of  asphodel  ? 

Neobule,  tired  to  death 
Of  the  flowers  that  I  threw 
On  her  flower-like,  fair  feet. 
Sighed  for  blossoms  not  so  sweet. 
Lunar  roses  pale  and  blue, 
Lilies  of  the  world  beneath. 

43 


A  REQUIEM 


Neobule  !  ah,  too  tired 

Of  the  dreams  and  days  above  ! 

Where  the  poor,  dead  people  stray, 

Ghostly,  pitiful  and  gray, 

Out  of  life  and  out  of  love, 

Sleeps  the  sleep  which  she  desired. 


44 


BEATA  SOLITUDO 


What  land  of  Silence, 
Where  pale  stars  shine 

On  apple-blossom 

And  dew-drenched  vine, 
Is  yours  and  mine  ? 

The  silent  valley 
That  we  will  find, 

Where  all  the  voices 
Of  humankind 
Are  left  behind. 

There  all  forgetting, 

Forgotten  quite, 
We  will  repose  us, 

With  our  delight 

Hid  out  of  sight. 

45 


BEATA  SOLITUDO 


The  world  forsaken, 

And  out  of  mind 
Honour  and  labour^ 

We  shall  not  find 

The  stars  unkind. 

And  men  shall  travail, 
And  laugh  and  weep  ; 

But  we  have  vistas 
Ot  gods  asleep, 
With  dreams  as  deep. 

A  land  of  Silence, 

Where  pale  stars  shine 

On  apple-blossoms 

And  dew-drenched  vine, 
Be  yours  and  mine  1 


TERRE  PROMISE 


Even  now  the  fragrant  darkness  of  her  hair 
Had  brushed  my  cheek  ;  and  once,  in  passing  by, 
Her  hand  upon  my  hand  lay  tranquilly : 
What  things  unspoken  trembled  in  the  air ! 

Always  I  know,  how  little  severs  me 
From  mine  heart's  country,  that  is  yet  so  far  ; 
And  must  I  lean  and  long  across  a  bar, 
That  half  a  word  would  shatter  utterly  ? 

Ah  might  it  be,  that  just  by  touch  of  hand, 
Or  speaking  silence,  shall  the  barrier  fall  ; 
And  she  shall  pass,  with  no  vain  words  at  all, 
But  droop  into  mine  arms,  and  understand ! 


47 


AUTUMNAL 


Pale  amber  sunlight  falls  across 
The  reddening  October  trees, 
That  hardly  sway  before  a  breeze 

As  soft  as  summer  :  summer's  loss 
Seems  little,  dear  !  on  days  like  these 

Let  misty  autumn  be  our  part  ! 
The  twilight  of  the  year  is  sweet : 
Where  shadow  and  the  darkness  meet 

Our  love,  a  twilight  of  the  heart 
Eludes  a  little  time's  deceit. 

Are  we  not  better  and  at  home 

In  dreamful  Autumn,  we  who  deem 
No  harvest  joy  is  worth  a  dream  ? 

A  little  while  and  night  shall  come, 
A  little  while,  then,  let  us  dream. 
48 


AUTUMNAL 


Beyond  the  pearled  horizons  lie 
Winter  and  night  :  awaiting  these 
We  garner  this  poor  hour  of  ease. 

Until  love  turn  from  us  and  die 
Beneath  the  drear  November  trees. 


49 


IN  TEMPORE  SENECTUTIS 


When  I  am  old, 

And  sadly  steal  apart, 
Into  the  dark  and  cold, 

Friend  of  my  heart ! 
Remember,  if  you  can, 
Not  him  who  lingers,  but  that  other  man, 
Who  loved  and  sang,  and  had  a  beating  heart, — 
When  I  am  old  1 

When  I  am  old, 

And  all  Love*s  ancient  fire 
Be  tremulous  and  cold  : 

My  soul's  desire ! 
Remember,  if  you  may. 
Nothing  of  you  and  me  but  yesterday, 
When  heart  on  heart  we  bid  the  years  conspire 
To  make  us  old. 

SO 


IN  TEMPORE  SENECTUTIS 

When  I  am  old, 

And  every  star  above 
Be  pitiless  and  cold  : 

My  life's  one  love  ! 
Forbid  me  not  to  go  : 
Remember  nought  of  us  but  long  ago, 
And  not  at  last,  how  love  and  pity  strove 
When  1  grew  old  i 


51 


VILLANELLE  OF  HIS  LADY'S 

TREASURES 

I  TOOK  her  dainty  eyes,  as  well 

As  silken  tendrils  of  her  hair  : 
And  so  I  made  a  Villanelle  ! 

I  took  her  voice,  a  silver  bell. 

As  clear  as  song,  as  soft  as  prayer  ; 
I  took  her  dainty  eyes  as  well. 

It  may  be,  said  I,  who  can  tell, 

These  things  shall  be  my  less  despair  ? 
And  so  I  made  a  Villanelle ! 

I  took  her  whiteness  virginal 

And  from  her  cheek  two  roses  rare  ; 
I  took  her  dainty  eyes  as  well. 

I  said  :     It  may  be  possible 

Her  image  from  my  heart  to  tear  ! " 
And  so  I  made  a  Villanelle. 

52 


VILLANELLE 

I  stole  her  laugh,  most  musical : 

I  wrought  it  in  with  artful  care  j 
I  took  her  dainty  eyes  as  well ; 
And  so  I  made  a  Villanelle. 


53 


GRAY  NIGHTS 


A  WHILE  we  wandered  (thus  it  is  I  dream !) 
Through  a  long,  sandy  track  of  No  Man's  Land, 
Where  only  poppies  grew  among  the  sand. 
The  which  we,  plucking,  cast  with  scant  esteem, 
And  ever  sadlier,  into  the  sad  stream, 
^Vhich  followed  us,  as  we  went,  hand  in  hand, 
Under  the  estranged  stars,  a  road  unplanned. 
Seeing  all  things  in  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

And  ever  sadlier,  as  the  stars  expired, 
We  found  the  poppies  rarer,  till  thine  eyes 
Grown  all  my  light,  to  light  me  were  too  tired, 
And  at  their  darkening,  that  no  surmise 
Might  haunt  me  of  the  lost  days  we  desired, 
After  them  all  I  flung  those  memories  1 


54 


VESPERAL 


Strange  grows  the  river  on  the  sunless  evenings  I 
The  river  comforts  me,  grown  spectral,  vague  and 
dumb : 

Long  was  the  day  ;  at  last  the  consoling  shadows 
come  : 

Sufficient  for  the  day  are  the  day's  evil  things/ 

Labour  and  longing  and  despair  the  long  day  brings ; 
Patient  till  evening  men  watch  the  sun  go  west ; 
Deferred,  expected  night  at  last  brings  sleep  and 
rest  : 

Sufficient  for  the  day  are  the  days  evil  things/ 

At  last  the  tranquil  Angelus  of  evening  rings 
Night*s  curtain  down  for  comfort  and  oblivion 
Of  all  the  vanities  observM  by  the  sun : 
Sufficient  for  the  day  are  the  days  evil  things/ 

55 


VESPERAL 


So,  some  time,  when  the  last  of  all  our  evenings 
Crowneth  memorially  the  last  of  all  our  days, 
Not  loth  to  take  his  poppies  man  goes  down  and 
says, 

"Sufficient  for  the  day  were  the  day's  evil  things  I" 


56 


THE  GARDEN  OF  SHADOW 


Love  heeds  no  more  the  sighing  of  the  wind 
Against  the  perfect  flowers  :  thy  garden*s  close 
Is  grown  a  wilderness,  where  none  shall  find 
One  strayed,  last  petal  of  one  last  year*s  rose. 

O  bright,  bright  hair  !  O  mouth  like  a  ripe  fruit ! 
Can  famine  be  so  nigh  to  harvesting  ? 
Love,  that  was  songful,  with  a  broken  lute 
In  grass  of  graveyards  goeth  murmuring. 

Let  the  wind  blow  against  the  perfect  flowers, 
And  all  thy  garden  change  and  glow  with  spring  : 
Love  is  grown  blind  with  no  more  count  of  hours 
Nor  part  in  seed-time  nor  in  harvesting. 


57 


SOLI  CANTARE  PERITI  ARCADES 


Oh,  I  would  live  in  a  dairy, 
And  its  Colin  I  would  be, 

And  many  a  rustic  fairy 

Should  churn  the  milk  with  me. 

Or  the  fields  should  be  my  pleasure, 
And  my  flocks  should  follow  me, 

Piping  a  frolic  measure 
For  Joan  or  Marjorie. 

For  the  town  is  black  and  weary, 
And  I  hate  the  London  street  ; 

But  the  country  ways  are  cheery, 
And  country  lanes  are  sweet. 

Good  luck  to  you,  Paris  ladies  I 
Ye  are  over  fine  and  nice, 

I  know  where  the  country  maid  is. 
Who  needs  not  asking  twice. 

58 


SOLI  CANTARE  PERITI  ARCADES 


Ye  are  brave  in  your  silks  and  satins, 
As  ye  mince  about  the  Town ; 

But  her  feet  go  free  in  pattens, 
If  she  wear  a  russet  gown. 

If  she  be  not  queen  nor  goddess 

She  shall  milk  my  brown-eyed  herds, 

And  the  breasts  beneath  her  bodice 
Are  whiter  than  her  curds. 

So  I  will  live  in  a  dairy. 

And  its  Colin  I  will  be, 
And  it's  Joan  that  I  will  marry, 

Or,  haply,  Marjorie. 


59 


ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  A  FRIEND'S 
CHILD 


Mark  the  day  white,  on  which  the  Fates  have 
smiled  : 

Eugenio  and  Egeria  have  a  child. 
On  whom  abundant  grace  kind  Jove  imparts 
If  she  but  copy  either  parent's  parts. 
Then,  Muses!  long  devoted  to  her  race, 
Grant  her  Egeria's  virtues  and  her  face  ; 
Nor  stop  your  bounty  there,  but  add  to  it 
Engenio's  learning  and  Eugenio's  wit. 


60 


EXTREME  UNCTION 


Upon  the  eyes,  the  lips,  the  feet, 

On  all  the  passages  of  sense, 
The  atoning  oil  is  spread  with  sweet 

Renewal  of  lost  innocence. 

The  feet,  that  lately  ran  so  fast 

To  meet  desire,  are  soothly  sealed  ; 

The  eyes,  that  were  so  often  cast 
On  vanity,  are  touched  and  healed. 

From  troublous  sights  and  sounds  set  free ; 

In  such  a  twilight  hour  of  breath, 
Shall  one  retrace  his  life,  or  see. 

Through  shadows,  the  true  face  of  death  ? 

Vials  of  mercy  !  Sacring  oils  I 

I  know  not  where  nor  when  I  come, 

Nor  through  what  wanderings  and  toils, 
To  crave  of  you  Viaticum. 

6i 


EXTREME  UNCTION 

^et,  when  the  walls  of  flesh  grow  weak, 
In  such  an  hour,  it  well  may  be, 

fhrough  mist  and  darkness,  light  will  break, 
And  each  anointed  sense  will  see. 


62 


AMANTIUM  IRAE 

When  this,  our  rose,  is  faded, 

And  these,  our  days,  are  done, 
In  lands  profoundly  shaded 

From  tempest  and  from  sun  : 
Ah,  once  more  come  together, 

Shall  we  forgive  the  past, 
And  safe  from  worldly  weather 

Possess  our  souls  at  last  ? 

Or  in  our  place  of  shadows 

Shall  still  we  stretch  an  hand 
To  green,  remembered  meadows. 

Of  that  old  pleasant  land  ? 
And  vainly  there  foregathered, 

Shall  we  regret  the  sun  ? 
The  rose  of  love,  ungathcred  ? 

The  bay,  we  have  not  won  ? 

63 


AMANTIUM  IRAE 


Ah,  child  1  the  world's  dark  marges 

May  lead  to  Nevermore, 
The  stately  funeral  barges 

Sail  for  an  unknown  shore, 
And  love  we  vow  to-morrow, 

And  pride  we  serve  to-day  : 
What  if  they  both  should  borrow 

Sad  hues  of  yesterday  ? 

Our  pride  !    Ah,- should  we  miss  it. 

Or  will  it  serve  at  last  ? 
Our  anger,  if  we  kiss  it, 

Is  like  a  sorrow  past. 
While  roses  deck  the  garden, 

While  yet  the  sun  is  high, 
DofF  sorry  pride  for  pardon, 

Or  ever  love  go  by. 


64 


IMPENITENTIA  ULTIMA 

Before  my  light  goes  out  for  ever  if  God  should 
give  me  a  choice  of  graces, 
I  would  not  reck  of  length  of  days,  nor  crave 
for  things  to  be  ; 
But  cry :  "  One  day  of  the  great  lost  days,  one  face 
of  all  the  faces, 
Grant  me  to  see  and  touch  once  more  and 
nothing  more  to  see. 

For,  Lord,  I  was  free  of  all  Thy  flowers,  but  1 

chose  the  world's  sad  roses, 
And  that  is  why  my  feet  are  torn  and  mine  eyes 
are  blind  with  sweat. 
But  at  Thy  terrible  judgment-seat,  when  this  my 
tired  life  closes, 
I  tm  ready  to  reap  whereof  1  sowed,  and  pay  my 
righteous  debt. 


IMPENITENTIA  ULTIMA 


"  But  once  before  the  sand  is  run  and  the  silver 
thread  is  broken, 
Give  me  a  grace  and  cast  aside  the  veil  of 
dolorous  years, 
Gr^nt  me  one  hour  of  all  mine  hours,  and  let  me 
see  for  a  token 
Her  pure  and  pitiful  eyes  shine  out,  and  bathe 
her  feet  with  tears.'* 

Her  pitiful  hands  should  calm,  and  her  hair  stream 
down  and  blind  me, 
Out  of  the  sight  of  night,  and  out  of  the  reach  of 
fear, 

And  her  eyes  should  be  my  light  whilst  the  sun 
went  out  behind  me, 
And  the  viols  in  her  voice  be  the  last  sound  in 
mine  ear. 

Before  the  ruining  waters  fail  and  my  life  be  carried 
under. 

And  Thine  anger  cleave  me  through  as  a  child 
cuts  down  a  flower, 
I  will  praise  Thee,  Lord,  in  Hell,  while  my  limbs 
are  racked  asunder, 
For  the  last  sad  sight  of  her  face  and  the  little 
grace  of  an  hour. 

66 


A  VALEDICTION 


If  we  must  part, 

Then  let  it  be  like  this ; 
Not  heart  on  heart, 

Nor  with  the  useless  anguish  of  a  kiss  ; 
But  touch  mine  hand  and  say : 
**  Until  to-morrow  or  some  other  day^ 

If  we  must  party 

Words  arc  so  weak 

When  love  hath  been  so  strong  : 
Let  silence  speak  : 

"  Life  is  a  little  while,  and  love  is  long ; 
A  time  to  sow  and  reap^ 
And  after  harvest  a  long  time  to  sleep, 

But  words  are  weak,'* 


67 


SAPIENTIA  LUNAE 


The  wisdom  of  the  world  said  unto  me: 

"  Go  forth  and  run^  the  race  is  to  the  brave ; 
Perchance  some  honour  tarrieth  for  thee 

"  As  tarrieth,'*  I  said,    for  sure,  the  grave." 
For  I  had  pondered  on  a  rune  of  roses, 
Which  to  her  votaries  the  moon  discloses. 

The  wisdom  of  the  world  said  :     There  are  hays : 

Go  forth  and  run^  for  victory  is  goody 
After  the  stress  of  the  laborious  daysP 

"Yet,"  said  I,   shall  I  be  the  worms'  sweet  food," 
As  I  went  musing  on  a  rune  of  roses, 
Which  in  her  hour,  the  pale,  soft  moon  dis- 
closes 

Then  said  my  voices  :  "  Wherefore  strive  or  run. 
On  dusty  highways  ever^  a  vain  race  ? 

The  long  night  cometh^  starless^  void  of  sun^ 

What  light  shall  serve  thee  like  her  golden  face  ? ' 
68 


SAPIENTIA  LUNAE 


For  I  hf  d  pondered  on  a  rune  of  roses, 
And  knew  some  secrets  which  the  moon  dis- 
closes. 

**  Yea,"  said  I,  "  for  her  eyes  are  pure  and  sweet 

As  lilies,  and  the  fragrance  of  her  hair 
Is  many  laurels  ;  and  it  is  not  meet 

To  run  for  shadows  when  the  prize  is  here  "  : 
And  I  went  reading  in  that  rune  of  roses 
Which  to  her  votaries  the  moon  discloses 


69 


Dum  ms  fata  sinunt,  ocnlos  sanemm  A  more 

Propertius 

Cease  smiling,  Dear  !  a  little  while  be  sad, 

Here  in  the  silence,  under  the  wan  moon  ; 
Sweet  are  thine  eyes,  but  how  can  I  be  glad, 
Knowing  they  change  so  soon  ? 

For  Love*s  sake,  Dear,  be  silent !  Cover  me 

In  the  deep  darkness  of  thy  falling  hair  : 
Fear  is  upon  me  and  the  memory 
Of  what  is  all  men's  share. 

O  could  this  moment  be  perpetuate! 

Must  we  grow  old,  and  leaden-eyed  and  gray, 
And  taste  no  more  the  wild  and  passionate 
Love  sorrows  of  to-day  ? 

Grown  old,  and  faded.  Sweet!  and  past  desire. 

Let  memory  die,  lest  there  be  too  much  ruth. 
Remembering  the  old,  extinguished  fire 
Of  our  divine,  lost  youth. 

70 


CEASE  SMILING,  DEAR 


O  red  pomegranate  of  thy  perfect  mouth  ! 

My  lips'  life-fruitage,  might  I  taste  and  die 
Here  in  thy  garden,  where  the  scented  south 
Wind  chastens  agony  ; 

Reap  death  from  thy  live  lips  in  one  long  kiss, 

And  look  my  last  into  thine  eyes  and  rest : 
What  sweets  had  life  to  me  sweeter  than  this 
Swift  dying  on  thy  breast  ? 

Or,  if  that  may  not  be,  for  Love's  sake,  Dear  ! 

Keep  silence  still,  and  dream  that  we  shall  lie. 
Red  mouth  to  mouth,  entwined,  and  always  hear 
The  south  wind's  melody, 

Here  in  thy  garden,  through  the  sighing  boughs. 

Beyond  the  reach  of  time  and  chance  and  change. 
And  bitter  life  and  death,  and  broken  vows, 
That  sadden  and  estrange. 


71 


SERAPHITA 


Come  not  before  me  now,  O  visionary  face ! 
Me  tempest-tost,  and  borne  along  life's  passionate 
sea  ; 

Troublous  and  dark  and  stormy  though  my  passage 
be  ; 

Not  here  and  now  may  we  commingle  or  embrace, 
Lest  the  loud  anguish  of  the  waters  should  efface 
The  bright  illumination  of  thy  memory. 
Which  dominates  the  night;  rest,  far  away  from  me, 
In  the  serenity  of  thine  abiding-place  ! 

But  when  the  storm  is  highest,  and  the  thunders 
blare, 

And  sea  and  sky  are  riven,  O  moon  of  all  my  night  1 
Stoop  down  but  once  in  pity  of  my  great  despair. 
And  let  thine  hand,  though  over  late  to  help,  alight 
But  once  upon  my  pale  eyes  and  my  drowning  hair. 
Before  the  great  waves  conquer  in  the  last  vain  fight. 


72 


EPIGRAM 


Because  I  am  idolatrous  and  have  besought, 
With  grievous  supplication  and  consuming  prayer, 
The  admirable  image  that  my  dreams  have  wrought 
Out  of  her  swan*s  neck  and  her  dark,  abundant 
hair : 

The  jealous  gods,  who  brook  no  worship  save  their 
own. 

Turned  my  live  idol  marble  and  her  heart  to  stone 


73 


QUID  NON  SPEREMUS,  AM  ANTES? 


Why  is  there  in  the  least  touch  of  her  hands 
More  grace  than  other  womens'  lips  bestow, 

If  love  is  but  a  slave  in  fleshly  bands 

Of  flesh  to  flesh,  wherever  love  may  go  ? 

Why  choose  vain  grief  and  heavy-hearted  hours 
For  her  lost  voice,  and  dear  remembered  hair, 

If  love  may  cull  his  honey  from  all  flowers, 
And  girls  grow  thick  as  violets,  everywhere  ? 

Nay  !  She  is  gone,  and  all  things  fall  apart ; 

Or  she  is  cold,  and  vainly  have  we  prayed  ; 
And  broken  is  the  summer's  splendid  heart, 

And  hope  within  a  deep,  dark  grave  is  laid. 

As  man  aspires  and  falls,  yet  a  soul  springs 

Out  of  his  agony  of  flesh  at  last, 
So  love  that  flesh  enthralls,  shall  rise  on  v/ings 

Soul-centred,  when  the  rule  of  flesh  is  past. 
74 


QUID  NON  SPEREMUS,  AMANTES  ? 

Then,  most  High  Love,  or  wreathed  with  myrtle 
sprays. 

Or  crownless  and  forlorn,  nor  less  a  star, 
Thee  may  I  serve  and  follow,  all  my  days. 
Whose  thorns  are  sweet  as  never  roses  are ! 


75 


CHANSON  SANS  PAROLES 


In  the  deep  violet  air, 
Not  a  leaf  is  stirred ; 
There  is  no  sound  heard, 

But  afar,  the  rare 

Trilled  voice  of  a  bird. 

Is  the  wood's  dim  heart, 
And  the  fragrant  pine, 
Incense,  and  a  shrine 

Of  her  coming  ?  Apart, 
I  wait  for  a  sign. 

What  the  sudden  hush  said. 
She  will  hear,  and  forsake. 
Swift,  for  my  sake, 

Her  green,  grassy  bed  : 
She  will  hear  and  awake  5 

76 


CHANSON  SANS  PAROLES 


She  will  hearken  and  glide, 
From  her  place  of  deep  rest. 
Dove-eyed,  with  the  breast 

Of  a  dove,  to  my  side  : 
The  pines  bow  their  crest. 

I  wait  for  a  sign  : 

The  leaves  to  be  waved, 
The  tall  tree-tops  laved 

In  a  flood  of  sunshine, 
This  world  to  be  saved ! 

In  the  deep  violet  air^ 

Not  a  leaf  is  stirred ; 

There  is  no  sound  heardy 
(But  afar^  the  rare 

Trilled  voice  of  a  bird. 


77 


THE  PIERROT  OF 
THE  MINUTE 


THE  CHARACTERS 

A  Moon  Maiden 
Pierrot 


THE  SCENE 


A  glade  in  the  Pare  du  Petit  Triancn.    In  the  centre 
Doric  temple  with  steps  coming  down  the  stage.  On 
left  4  Utile  Cupid  sn  a  pedestal,  Twiligki 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


[Pierrot  enters  with  his  hands  full  of  lilies.  He  is 
burdened  with  a  little  basket.  He  stands 
gazing  at  the  T^emple  and  the  Statue^ 

IIERRUT 

My  journey's   end !  This 
surely  is  the  glade 
Which    I   was  promised :  I 

have  well  obeyed  ! 
A  clue  of  lilies  was  I  bid  to 
find, 

Where  the  green  alleys  most  obscurely  wind ; 
Where  tall  oaks  darkliest  canopy  o'erhead, 
And  moss  and  violet  make  the  softest  bed; 
Where  the  path  ends,  and  leagues  behind  me  lie 
The  gleaming  courts  and  gardens  of  Versailles  ; 
The  lilies  streamed  before  me,  green  and  white ; 
I  gathered,  following ;  they  led  me  right, 
To  the  bright  temple  and  the  sacred  grove  r 
This  is,  in  truth,  the  very  shrine  of  Love  ! 

8i  F 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


[He  gathers  together  his  flowers  and  lays  them  at 
the  foot  of  Cupid* s  statue;  then  he  goes 
timidly  up  the  first  steps  of  the  temple  and 
stops.'] 

PIERROT 

It  is  SO  solitary,  I  grow  afraid. 

Is  there  no  priest  here,  no  devoted  maid  ? 

Is  there  no  oracle,  no  voice  to  speak, 

Interpreting  to  me  the  word  I  seek  ? 

[A  very  gentle  music  of  lutes  floats  out  from  the 
temple.  Pierrot  starts  back ;  he  shows  ex- 
treme surprise ;  then  he  returns  to  the  fore- 
ground^  and  crouches  down  in  rapt  attention 
until  the  music  ceases.  His  face  grows 
puzzled  and  petulant^ 

PIERROT 

Too  soon  !  too  soon  !  in  that  enchanting  strain. 
Days  yet  unlived,  I  almost  lived  again  : 
It  almost  taught  me  that  I  most  would  know — 
Why  am  I  here,  and  why  am  I  Pierrot  ? 

[Absently  he  picks  up  a  lily  which  has  fallen  to  the 
ground^  and  repeats ;] 

PIERROT 

Why  came  I  here,  and  why  am  I  Pierrot  ? 
82 


I 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


That  music  and  this  silence  both  affright ; 
Pierrot  can  never  be  a  friend  of  night. 
I  never  felt  my  solitude  before — 
Once  safe  at  home,  I  will  return  no  more. 
Yet  the  commandment  of  the  scroll  was  plain  ; 
While  the  light  lingers  let  me  read  again. 
[He  takes  a  scroll  from  his  bosom  and  reads  f] 

PIERROT 

"  He  loves  to-night  who  never  loved  before ; 
fFho  ever  lovedy  to-night  shall  love  once  more^ 
I  never  loved  !    I  know  not  what  love  is. 
I  am  so  ignorant — but  what  is  this  ? 
[Reads:'] 

**  Who  would  adventure  to  encounter  Love 

Must  rest  one  nigh^  within  this  hallowed  grove. 

Cast  down  thy  lilies,  which  have  led  thee  on, 

Before  the  tender  feet  of  Cupidon'' 

Thus  much  is  done,  the  night  remains  to  me. 

Well,  Cupidon,  be  my  security  I 

Here  is  more  writing,  but  too  faint  to  read. 

[He  puzzles  for  a  moment^  then  casts  the  scroll  down.] 

PIERROT 

Hence,  vain  old  parchment.     I  have  learnt  thy 
rede  1 

83 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


[He  looks  round  uneasily y  starts  at  his  shadow; 
then  discovers  his  basket  with  glee.  He  takes 
out  a  flask  of  wine,  pours  it  into  a  glass ,  and 
drinks^ 

PIERROT 

Courage,  mon  ^mi !    I  shall  never  miss 
Society  with  such  a  friend  as  this. 
How  merrily  the  rosy  bubbles  pass, 
Across  the  amber  crystal  of  the  glass. 
I  had  forgotten  you.    Methinks  this  quest 
Can  wake  no  sweeter  echo  in  my  breast. 

[Looks  round  at  the  statue,  and  starts.] 

PIERROT 

Nay,  little  god  !  forgive.    I  did  but  jest. 

[He  fills  another  glass y  and  pours  it  upon  the  statue.] 

PIERROT 

This  libation,  Cupid,  take, 
With  the  lilies  at  thy  feet ; 

Cherish  Pierrot  for  their  sake  : 

Send  him  visions  strange  and  sweet, 

While  he  slumbers  at  thy  feet. 

84 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


Only  love  kiss  him  awake  ! 
Only  love  kiss  him  awake  / 

[Slowly  falls  the  darkness^  soft  music  plays,  while 
Pierrot  gathers  together  fern  and  foliage  into  a 
rough  couch  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  which  lead 
to  the  'Temple  d^zAmour.  Then  he  lies  down 
upon  ity  having  made  his  prayer.  It  is  night,'] 

PIERROT 

[Softly.-] 

Music,  more  music,  far  away  and  faint  : 
It  is  an  echo  of  mine  heart's  complaint. 
Why  should  I  be  so  musical  and  sad  ? 
I  wonder  why  I  used  to  be  so  glad  ? 
In  single  glee  I  chased  blue  butterflies, 
Half  butterfly  myself,  but  not  so  wise, 
For  they  were  twain,  and  I  was  only  one. 
Ah  me  !  how  pitiful  to  be  alone. 
My  brown  birds  told  me  much,  but  in  mine  ear 
They  never  whispered  this — I  learned  it  here  : 
The  soft  wood  sounds,  the  rustlings  in  the  breeze, 
Arc  but  the  stealthy  kisses  of  the  trees. 
Each  flower  and  fern  in  this  enchanted  wood 
Leans  to  her  fellow,  and  is  understood; 


85 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


The  eglantine,  in  loftier  station  set, 
Stoops  down  to  woo  the  maidly  violet. 
In  gracile  pairs  the  very  lilies  grow  : 
None  is  companionless  except  Pierrot. 
Music,  more  music!  how  its  echoes  steal 
Upon  my  senses  with  unlooked  for  weal. 
Tired  am  I,  tired,  and  far  from  this  lone  glade 
Seems  mine  old  joy  in  rout  and  masquerade. 
Sleep  cometh  over  me,  now  will  I  prove, 
By  Cupid's  grace,  what  is  this  thing  called  love. 

[Sleeps.] 

[There  is  more  music  of  lutes  for  an  interval,  dur- 
ing which  a  bright  radiance^  white  and  cold, 
streams  from  the  temple  upon  the  face  of 
Pierrot,  Presently  a  Moon  Maiden  steps  out 
of  the  temple ;  she  descends  and  stands  over 
the  sleeper.] 

THE  LADY 

Who  is  this  mortal 

Who  ventures  to-night 

To  woo  an  immortal  ? 

Cold,  cold  the  moon's  light 

For  sleep  at  this  portal, 
Bold  lover  of  night. 
86 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


Fair  is  the  mortal 

In  soft,  silken  white, 
Who  seeks  an  immortal 

Ah,  lover  of  night, 
Be  warned  at  the  portal, 

And  save  thee  in  flight ! 

[She  stoops  over  him :  Pierrol  stirs  in  his  sleep.'] 

PIERROT 

[Murmuring,'] 
Forget  not,  Cupid.    Teach  me  all  thy  lore  : 
"  He  loves  to-night  who  never  loved  before'^ 

THE  LADY 

Unwitting  boy  I  when,  be  it  soon  or  late. 
What  Pierrot  ever  has  escaped  his  fate  ? 
What  if  I  warned  him  1    He  might  yet  evade, 
Through  the  long  windings  of  this  verdant  glade  ; 
Seek  his  companions  in  the  blither  way. 
Which,  else,  must  be  as  lost  as  yesterday. 
So  might  he  still  pass  some  unheeding  hours 
In  the  sweet  company  of  birds  and  flowers. 
How  fair  he  is,  with  red  lips  formed  for  joy, 
As  softly  curved  as  those  of  Venus'  boy. 

87 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


Methinks  his  eyes,  beneath  their  silver  sheaves, 

Rest  tranquilly  like  lilies  under  leaves. 

Arrayed  in  innocence,  what  touch  of  grace 

Reveals  the  scion  of  a  courtly  race  ? 

Well,  I  will  warn  him,  though,  I  fear,  too  late — 

What  Pierrot  ever  has  escaped  his  fate  ? 

But,  see,  he  stirs,  new  knowledge  fires  his  brain, 

And  Cupid's  vision  bids  him  wake  again. 

Dione's  Daughter !  but  how  fair  he  is. 

Would  it  be  wrong  to  rouse  him  with  a  kiss  ? 

[She  sloops  down  and  kisses  him^  then  withdraw:^ 
into  the  shadowj] 

PIERROT 

\_1{ubhing  his  eyes.] 
Celestial  messenger!  remain,  remain  ; 
Or,  if  a  vision,  visit  me  again  ! 
What  is  this  light,  and  whither  am  I  come 
To  sleep  beneath  the  stars  so  far  from  home  ? 

[Rises  s  lowly  to  his  feet.] 

PIERROT 

Stay,  I  remember  this  is  Venus'  Grove, 

And  I  am  hither  come  to  encounter  

88 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


THE  LADY 

[Coming  forward  but  vei/ed.'] 

Love  ! 

[In  ecstasy f  throwing  himself  at  her  feet."] 

PIERROT 

Then  have  I  ventured  and  encountered  Love  ? 

THE  LADY 

Not  yet,  rash  boy !  and,  if  thou  wouldst  be  wise, 
Return  unknowing;  he  is  safe  who  flies. 

PIERROT 

Never,  sweet  lady,  will  I  leave  this  place 
Until  I  see  the  wonder  of  thy  face. 
Goddess  or  Naiad  !  lady  of  this  Grove, 
Made  mortal  for  a  night  to  teach  me  love. 
Unveil  thyself,  although  thy  beauty  be 
Too  luminous  for  my  mortality. 

THE  LADY 

[Unveiling.'] 
Then,  foolish  boy,  receive  at  length  thy  will  : 
Now  knowest  thou  the  greatness  of  thine  ill. 

89 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


PIERROT 

Now  have  I  lost  my  heart,  and  gained  my  goal. 

THE  LADY 

Didst  thou  not  read  the  warning  on  the  scroll  ? 
[Picking  up  the  parchment,'] 

PIERROT 

I  read  it  all,  as  on  this  quest  I  fared, 
Save  where  it  was  illegible  and  hard. 

THE  LADY 

Alack!  poor  scholar,  wast  thou  never  taught 
A  little  knowledge  serveth  less  than  naught  ? 

Hadst  thou  perused  but,  stay,  I  will  explain 

What  was  the  writing  which  thou  didst  disdain. 
[Reads ;] 

An  Petit  Trianon,  at  night's  full  noon, 
Mortal,  beware  the  kisses  of  the  moon  ! 
Whoso  seeks  her  she  gathers  like  a  flower — 
He  gives  a  life,  and  only  gains  an  hour." 

PIERROT 

[Laughing  recklessly.] 
Bear  me  away  to  thine  enchanted  bower, 
All  of  my  life  I  venture  for  an  hour. 

90 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


THE  LADY 

Take  up  thy  destiny  of  short  delight ; 
I  am  thy  lady  for  a  summer's  night. 
Lift  up  your  viols,  maidens  of  my  train, 
And  work  such  havoc  on  this  mortal's  brain 
That  for  a  moment  he  may  touch  and  know 
Immortal  things,  and  be  full  Pierrot. 
White  music.  Nymphs !  Violet  and  Eglantine  ! 
To  stir  his  tired  veins  like  magic  wine. 
What  visitants  across  his  spirit  glance, 
Lying  on  lilies,  while  he  watch  me  dance  ? 
Watch,  and  forget  all  weary  things  of  earth, 
All  memories  and  cares,  all  joy  and  mirth, 
While  my  dance  woos  him,  light  and  rhythmical, 
And  weaves  his  heart  into  my  coronal. 
Music,  more  music  for  his  soul's  delight : 
Love  is  his  lady  for  a  summer's  night. 

[Pierrot  reclines^  ana  gazes  at  her  while  she  dances. 
The  dance  finished^  she  beckons  to  him  :  he 
rises  dreamily^  and  stands  at  her  side.'] 

PIERROT 

Whence  came,  dear  Queen,  such  magic  melody  ? 
91 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


THE  LADY 

Pan  made  it  long  ago  in  Arcady. 

PIERROT 

I  heard  it  long  ago,  I  know  not  where, 
As  I  knew  thee,  or  ever  I  came  here. 
But  I  forget  all  things — my  name  and  race. 
All  that  I  ever  knew  except  thy  face. 
Who  art  thou,  lady  ?    Breathe  a  name  to  me, 
That  I  may  tell  it  like  a  rosary. 
Thou,  whom  I  sought,  dear  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
How  art  thou  designate — art  thou  Heart's-Ease  ? 

THE  LADY 

Waste  not  the  night  in  idle  questioning. 
Since  Love  departs  at  dawn's  awakening. 

PIERROT 

Nay,  thou  art  right ;  what  recks  thy  name  or 
state, 

Since  thou  art  lovely  and  compassionate. 
Play  out  thy  will  on  me  :  I  am  thy  lyre. 

THE  LADY 

I  am  to  each  the  face  of  his  desire. 

92 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


PIERROT 

I  am  not  Pierrot,  but  Venus'  dove, 
Who  craves  a  refuge  on  the  breast  of  love. 

THE  LADY 

What  wouldst  thou  of  the  maiden  of  the  moon? 
Until  the  cock  crow  I  may  grant  thy  boon. 

PIERROT 

Then,  sweet  Moon  Maiden,  in  some  magic 
car. 

Wrought  wondrously  of  many  a  homeless  star — 
Such  must  attend  thy  journeys  through  the  skies, — 
Drawn  by  a  team  of  milk-white  butterflies, 
Whom,  with  soft  voice  and  music  of  thy  maids, 
Thou  urgest  gently  through  the  heavenly  glades  ; 
Mount  mc  beside  thee,  bear  me  far  away 
From  the  low  regions  of  the  solar  day  ; 
Over  the  rainbow,  up  into  the  moon, 
Where  is  thy  palace  and  thine  opal  throne  ; 
There  on  thy  bosom  

THE  LADY 

Too  ambitious  boy ! 
I  did  but  promise  thee  one  hour  of  joy. 
This  tour  thou  plannesr,  with  a  heart  so  light, 

93 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


Could  hardly  be  completed  in  a  night. 
Hast  thou  no  craving  less  remote  than  this  ? 

PIERROT 

Would  it  be  impudent  to  beg  a  kiss  ? 

THE  LADY 

I  say  not  that  :  yet  prithee  have  a  care ! 
Often  audacity  has  proved  a  snare. 
How  wan  and  pale  do  moon- kissed  roses  grow — 
Dost  thou  not  fear  my  kisses,  Pierrot  ? 

PIERROT 

As  one  who  faints  upon  the  Libyan  plain 
Fears  the  oasis  which  brings  life  again  1 

THE  LADY 

Where  far  away  green  palm  trees  seem  to  stand 
May  be  a  mirage  of  the  wreathing  sand. 

PIERROT 

Nay,  dear  enchantress,  I  consider  naught, 
Save  mine  own  ignorance,  which  would  be  taught. 

THE  LADY 

Dost  thou  persist  ? 

94 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


PIERROT 

I  do  entreat  this  boon  ! 

[She  bends  forward y  their  lips  meet :  she  withdraws 
with  a  petulant  shiver.  She  utters  a  feal  of 
clear  laughter^ 

THE  LADY 

Why  art  thou  pale,  fond  lover  of  the  moon  "> 

PIERROT 

Cold  are  thy  lips,  more  cold  than  I  can  tell 
Yet  would  I  hang  on  them,  thine  icicle ! 
Cold  is  thy  kiss,  more  cold  than  I  could  dream 
Arctus  sits,  watching  the  Boreal  stream  : 
But  with  its  frost  such  sweetness  did  conspire 
That  all  my  veins  are  filled  with  running  fire  ; 
Never  I  knew  that  life  contained  such  bliss 
As  the  divine  completeness  of  a  kiss. 

THE  LADY 

Apt  scholar  I  so  love's  lesson  has  been  tauglit 
Warning,  as  usual,  has  gone  for  naught. 

PIERROT 

Had  all  my  schooling  been  of  this  soft  kind, 
To  play  the  truant  I  were  less  inclined. 

95 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


Teach  me  again  !    I  am  a  sorry  dunce — 
I  never  knew  a  task  by  conning  once. 

THE  LADY 

Then  come  with  mc !  below  this  pleasant  shrine 
Of  Venus  we  will  presently  recline, 
Until  birds'  twitter  beckon  me  away 
To  mine  own  home,  beyond  the  mi  Iky- way. 
I  will  instruct  thee,  for  I  deem  as  yet 
Of  Love  thou  knowest  but  the  alphabet. 

PIERROT 

In  its  sweet  grammcr  I  shall  grow  most  wise, 
If  all  its  rules  be  written  in  thine  eyes. 

\fthe  lady  sits  upon  a  step  of  the  temple^  and 
Pierrot  leans  upon  his  elbow  at  her  feet^  re- 
garding her,] 

PIERROT 

Sweet  contemplation !  how  my  senses  yearn 
To  be  thy  scholar  always,  always  learn. 
Hold  not  so  high  from  me  thy  radiant  mouth. 
Fragrant  with  all  the  spices  of  the  South  ; 
Nor  turn,  O  sweet !  thy  golden  face  away^  " 
For  with  it  goes  the  light  of  all  my  day» 

96 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


Let  me  peruse  it,  till  I  know  by  rote 
Each  line  of  it,  like  music,  note  by  note ; 
Raise  thy  long  lashes,  Lady  !  smile  again  : 
These  studies  profit  me. 

[Taking  her  hand!] 

THE  LADY 

Refrain,  refrain  I 

PIERROT 

\JVith  passion!] 
I  am  but  studious,  so  do  not  stir  ; 
Thou  art  my  star,  I  thine  astronomer  I 
Geometry  was  founded  on  thy  lip, 

[Kisses  her  hand.] 

THE  LADY 

This  attitude  becomes  not  scholarship ! 
Thy  zeal  I  praise  ;  but,  prithee,  not  so  fast, 
Nor  leave  the  rudiments  until  the  last. 
Science  applied  is  good,  but  'twere  a  schism 
To  study  such  before  the  catechism, 
Bear  thee  more  modestly,  while  I  submit 
Some  easy  problems  to  confirm  thy  wit. 

PIERROT 

In  all  humility  my  mind  I  pit 
Against  her  problems  which  would  test  my  wit 

91  o 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


THE  LADY 

[Questioning  him  from  a  little  hook  hound  de- 
li ciously  in  vellum^ 

What  is  Love  ? 
Is  it  a  folly, 

Is  it  mirth,  or  melancholy  ? 

Joys  above. 
Are  there  many,  or  not  any  ? 

What  is  love  ? 

PIERROT 

[Answering  in  a  very  humhle  attitude  of  scholar- 
ship,"] 

If  you  please, 

A  most  sweet  folly! 
Full  of  mirth  and  melancholy; 

Both  of  these! 
In  its  sadness  worth  all  gladness, 

If  you  please  1 

THE  LADY 

Prithee  where, 
Goes  Love  a-hiding  ? 
Is  he  long  in  his  abiding 

Anywhere  ? 

98 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


Can  you  bind  him  when  you  find  him  ; 
Prithee,  where? 

PIERROT 

With  spring  days 
Love  comes  and  dallies  : 
Upon  the  mountains,  through  the  valleys 

Lie  Love's  ways. 
Then  he  leaves  you  and  deceives  you 

In  spring  days. 

THE  LADY 

Thine  answers  please  me  :  'tis  thy  turn  to  ask. 
To  meet  thy  questioning  be  now  my  task. 

PIERROT 

Since  I  know  thee,  dear  Immortal, 
Is  my  heart  become  a  blossom. 
To  be  worn  upon  thy  bosom. 
When  thou  turn  me  from  this  portal. 
Whither  shall  I,  hapless  mortal, 
Seek  love  out  and  win  again 
Heart  of  me  that  thou  retain.? 

THE  LADY 

In  and  out  the  woods  and  valleys, 
Circling,  soaring  like  a  swallow, 

99 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


Love  shall  flee  and  thou  shalt  follow : 
Though  he  stops  awhile  and  dallies, 
Never  shalt  thou  stay  his  malice  i 
Moon-kissed  mortals  seek  in  vala 
To  possess  their  hearts  again  ! 

PIERROT 

Tell  me,  Lady,  shall  I  never 
Rid  me  of  this  grievous  burden  1 
Follow  Love  and  find  his  guerdon 
In  no  maiden  whatsoever  ? 
Wilt  thou  hold  my  heart  for  ever  ? 
Rather  would  I  thine  forget, 
In  some  earthly  Pierrette  ! 

THE  LADY 

Thus  thy  fate,  whatever  thy  will  is ! 
Moon-struck  child,  go  seek  my  traces 
Vainly  in  all  mortal  faces  ! 
In  and  out  among  the  lilies, 
Court  each  rural  Amaryllis  : 
Seek  the  signet  of  Love's  hand 
In  each  courtly  Corisande  ! 

PIERROT 

Now,  verily,  sweet  maid,  of  school  I  tire : 
These  answers  are  not  such  as  I  desire. 

lOO 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


THE  LADY 

Why  art  thou  sad  ? 

PIERROT 

I  dare  not  tell. 

THE  LADY 

[Caressingly.'] 

Come,  say  ! 

PIERROT 

Is  love  all  schooling,  with  no  time  to  play  ? 

THE  LADY 

Though  all  love's  lessons  be  a  holiday, 
Yet  I  will  humour  thee  :  what  wouldst  thou  play 

PIERROT 

What  are  the  games  that  small  moon-maids 
enjoy, 

Or  is  their  time  all  spent  in  staid  employ  ? 

THE  LADY 

Sedate  they  are,  yet  games  they  much  enjoy  : 
They  skip  with  stars,  the  rainbow  is  their  toy. 

PIERROT 

That  is  too  hard  ! 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

THE  LADY 

For  mortal's  play. 

PIERROT 

What  then  ? 

THE  LADY 

Teach  me  some  pastime  from  the  worl   of  men, 

PIERROT 

I  have  it,  maiden. 

THE  LADY 

Can  it  soon  be  taught  ? 

PIERROT 

A  simple  game,  I  learnt  it  at  the  Court. 
I  sit  by  thee. 

THE  LADY 

But,  prithee,  not  so  near. 

PIERROT 

That  is  essential,  as  will  soon  appear. 
Lay  here  thine  hand,  which  cold  night  dews  anoint, 
Washing  its  white  

THE  LADY 

Now  is  this  to  the  point  ? 

I02 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 

PIERROT 

Prithee,  forbear  1    Such  is  the  game's  design 

THE  LADY 

Here  is  my  hand. 

PIERROT 

I  cover  it  with  mine. 

THE  LADY 

What  must  I  next  ? 

PIERROT 

Withdraw. 

THE  LADY 

It  goes  too  fast. 

[They  continue  playing,  until  Pierrot  catches  her 
hand.'] 

PIERROT 

[Laughing.] 
'Tis  done.    I  win  my  forfeit  at  the  last. 

[He  tries  to  embrace  her.    She  escapes ;  he  chases 
her  round  the  stage;  she  eludes  him.] 
103 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


THE  LADY 

Thou  art  not  quick  enough.    Who  hopes  to 
catch 

A  moon-beam,  must  use  twice  as  much  despatch. 

PIERROT 

[Sitting  down  sulkily, 1 

I  grow  aweary,  and  my  heart  is  sore, 
Thou  dost  not  love  me  ;  I  will  play  no  more. 

[He  buries  his  face  in  his  hands :  the  lady  stands 
over  himJ] 

THE  LADY 

What  is  this  petulance  ? 

PIERROT 

'Tis  quick  to  tell — 

Thou  hast  but  mocked  me. 

THE  LADY 

Nay  !  I  love  thee  well ! 

PIERROT 

Repeat  those  words,  for  still  within  my  breast 
A  whisper  warns  me  they  are  said  in  jest. 

104 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


THE  LADY 

I  jested  not :  at  daybreak  I  must  go, 
Yet  loving  thee  far  better  than  thou  know, 

PIERROT 

Then,  by  this  altar,  and  this  sacred  shrine, 
Take  my  sworn  troth,  and  swear  thee  wholly  mine ! 
The  Gods  have  wedded  mortals  long  ere  this. 

THE  LADY 

There  was  enough  betrothal  in  my  kiss. 
What  need  of  further  oaths  ? 

PIERROT 

That  bound  not  thee  ! 

THE  LADY 

Peace  !  since  I  tell  thee  that  it  may  not  be. 
But  sit  beside  me  whilst  I  soothe  thy  bale 
With  some  moon  fancy  or  celestial  tale, 

PIERROT 

Tell  me  of  thee,  and  that  dim,  happy  place 
Where  lies  thine  home,  with  maidens  of  thy  race  ! 

105 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


THE  LADY 

[Sealing  herself.'] 
Calm  is  it  yonder,  very  calm  ;  the  air 
For  mortal's  breath  is  too  refined  and  rare  v 
Hard  by  a  green  lagoon  our  palace  rears 
Its  dome  of  agate  through  a  myriad  years. 
A  hundred  chambers  its  bright  walls  enthrone, 
Each  one  carved  strangely  from  a  precious  stone. 
Within  the  fairest,  clad  in  purity, 
Our  mother  dwelleth  immemorially  : 
Moon-calm,  moon-pale,  with  moon  stones  on 
her  gown 

The  floor  she  treads  with  little  pearls  is  sown  ; 

She  sits  upon  a  throne  of  amethysts. 

And  orders  mortal  fortunes  as  she  lists ; 

I,  and  my  sisters,  all  around  her  stand. 

And,  when  she  speaks,  accomplish  her  demand. 

PIERROT 

Methought  grim  Clotho  and  her  sisters  twain 
With  shrivelled  fingers  spun  this  web  of  bane  ! 

THE  LADY 

Theirs  and  my  mother's  realm  is  far  apart , 
Hers  is  the  lustrous  kingdom  of  the  heart, 

io6 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


And  dreamers  all,  and  all  who  sing  and  love, 
Her  power  acknowledge,  and  her  rule  approve. 

PIERROT 

Me,  even  me,  she  hath  led  into  this  grove 

THE  LADY 

Yea,  thou  art  one  of  hers  I    But,  ere  this  night, 
Often  I  watched  my  sisters  take  their  flight 
Down  heaven's  stairway  of  the  clustered  stars 
To  gaze  on  mortals  through  their  lattice  bars  ; 
And  some  in  sleep  they  woo  with  dreams  of  bliss 
Too  shadowy  to  tell,  and  some  they  kiss. 
But  all  to  whom  they  come,  my  sisters  say, 
Forthwith  forget  all  joyance  of  the  day. 
Forget  their  laughter  and  forget  their  tears, 
And  dream  away  with  singing  all  their  years — 
Moon-lovers  always  ! 

[^She  sighs.] 

PIERROT 

Why  art  sad,  sweet  Moon  ? 
[Laughing.] 

THE  LADY 

For  this,  my  story,  grant  me  now  a  boon. 
107 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


PIERROT 

I  am  thy  servitor. 

THE  LADY 

Would,  then,  I  knew 
More  of  the  earth,  what  men  and  women  do. 

PIERROT 

I  will  explaitt. 

THE  LADY 

Let  brevity  attend 
Thy  wit,  for  night  approaches  to  its  end. 

PIERROT 

Once  was  I  a  page  at  Court,  so  trust  in  me : 
That's  the  first  lesson  of  society. 

THE  LADY 

Society  ? 

PIERROT 

I  mean  the  very  best 
Pardy  !  thou  wouldst  not  hear  about  the  rest. 
I  know  it  not,  but  am  a  petit  maitre 
At  rout  and  festival  and  bal  champetre, 

io8 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


But  since  example  be  instruction's  ease, 
Let's  play  the  thing. — Now,  Madame,  if  you 
please  ! 

[He  helps  htr  to  rise,  and  leads  her  forward :  then 
he  kisses  her  handy  bowing  over  it  with  a 
very  courtly  airJ] 

THE  LADY 

What  am  I,  then  ? 

PIERROT 

A  most  divine  Marquise  I 
Perhaps  that  attitude  hath  too  much  ease. 

[Passes  her,] 

Ah,  that  is  better  I    To  complete  the  plan, 
Nothing  is  necessary  save  a  fan. 

THE  LADY 

Cool  is  the  night,  what  needs  it  ? 

PIERROT 

Madame,  pray 

Reflect,  it  is  essential  to  our  play. 

109 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


THE  LADY 

[Taking  a  lily.'] 
Here  is  my  fan  1 

PIERROT 

So,  use  It  with  intent : 
The  deadliest  arm  in  beauty's  armament ! 

THE  LADY 

What  do  we  next  ? 

PIERROT 

We  talk  I 

THE  LADY 

But  what  about  ? 

PIERROT 

We  quiz  the  company  and  praise  the  rout ; 
Are  polished,  petulant,  malicious,  sly, 
Or  what  you  will,  so  reputations  die. 
Observe  the  Duchess  in  Venetian  lace, 
With  the  red  eminence. 

THE  LADY 

A  pretty  face  ! 

I  lO 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


PIERROT 

For  something  tarter  set  thy  wits  to  search — 
She  loves  the  churchman  better  than  the  church." 

THE  LADY 

Her  blush  is  charming  ;  would  it  were  her 
own  ! 

PIERROT 

Madame  is  merciless  1 

THE  LADY 

Is  that  the  tone  ? 

PIERROT 

The  very  tone  :  I  swear  thou  lackest  naught. 
Madame  was  evidently  bred  at  Court. 

THE  LADY 

Thou  speakest  glibly  :  'tis  not  of  thine  age. 

PIERROT 

I  listened  much,  as  best  becomes  a  page. 

THE  LADY 

I  like  thy  Court  but  little  

1 1 1 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


PIERROT 

Hush  !  the  Queen  ! 
Bow,  but  not  low — thou  knowest  what  I  mean. 

THE  LADY  ^ 

Nay,  that  I  know  not ! 

PIERROT 

Though  she  wear  a  crown, 
'Tis  from  La  Pompadour  one  fears  a  frown. 

THE  LADY 

Thou  art  a  child  :  thy  malice  is  a  game. 

PIERROT 

A  most  sweet  pastime — scandal  is  its  name. 

THE  LADY 

Enough,  it  wearies  me. 

PIERROT 

Then,  rare  Marquise, 
Desert  the  crowd  to  wander  through  the  trees. 

[He  bows  low^  and  she  curtsies  ;  they  move  round 
the  stage.  When  they  pass  before  the  Statue 
he  seizes  her  hand  and  falls  on  his  knee.^ 

112 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


THE  LADY 

What  wouldst  thou  now  ? 

PIERROT 

Ah,  prithee,  what,  save  thee 

THE  LADY 

Was  this  included  in  thy  comedy  ? 

PIERROT 

Ah,  mock  me  not  !    In  vain  with  quirk  and 
jest 

I  strive  to  quench  the  passion  in  my  breast ; 
In  vain  thy  blandishments  would  make  me  play ; 
Still  I  desire  far  more  than  I  can  say. 
My  knowledge  halts,  ah,  sweet,  be  piteous, 
Instruct  me  still,  while  time  remains  to  us, 
Be  what  thou  wist.  Goddess,  moon-maid. 
Marquise^ 

So  that  I  gather  from  thy  lips  heart's  ease, 
Nay,  I  implore  thee,  think  thee  how  time  flies  I 

THE  LADY 

Hush  I  I  beseech  thee,  even  now  night  dies. 

113  H 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


PIERROT 

Night,  day,  are  one  to  me  for  thy  soft  sake. 

[He  entreats  her  with  imploring  gestures ^  she  hesi- 
tates :  then  puts  her  finger  on  her  lip^  hushing 
him.'] 

THE  LADY 

It  is  too  late,  for  hark  I  the  birds  awake. 

PIERROT 

The  birds  awake  !    It  is  the  voice  of  day  ! 

THE  LADY 

Farewell,  dear  youth  !    They  summon  me  away. 

[The  light  changes,  it  grows  daylight :  and  music 
imitates  the  twitter  of  the  birds,  They  stand 
gazing  at  the  morning:  then  Pierrot  sinks 
back  upon  his  bed^  he  covers  his  face  in  his 
hands.] 

THE  LADY 

[Bending  over  him.] 
Music,  my  maids  !    His  weary  senses  steep 
In  soft  untroubled  and  oblivious  sleep, 

114 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


With  mandragore  anoint  his  tired  eyes, 
That  they  may  open  on  mere  memories, 
Then  shall  a  vision  seem  his  lost  delight, 
With  love,  his  lady  for  a  summer*s  night. 
Dream  thou  hast  dreamt  all  this,  when  thou 
awake, 

Yet  still  be  sorrowful,  for  a  dream's  sake. 
I  leave  thee,  sleeper  !    Yea,  I  leave  thee  now, 
Yet  take  my  legacy  upon  thy  brow  : 
Remember  mc,  who  was  compassionate, 
And  opened  for  thee  once,  the  ivory  gate. 
I  come  no  more,  thou  shalt  not  see  my  face 
When  I  am  gone  to  mine  exalted  place  : 
Yet  all  thy  days  are  mine,  dreamer  of  dreams, 
All  silvered  over  with  the  moon's  pale  beams  : 
Go  forth  and  seek  in  each  fair  face  in  vain, 
To  find  the  image  of  thy  love  again. 
All  maids  are  kind  to  thee,  yet  never  one 
Shall  hold  thy  truant  heart  till  day  be  done. 
Whom  once  the  moon  has  kissed,  loves  long  and 
late. 

Yet  never  finds  the  maid  to  be  his  mate. 
Farewell,  dear  sleeper,  follow  out  thy  fate. 

[The  Moon  Maiden  withdraws :  a  song  is  sung 
from  behind :  //  is  full  day,'] 


THE  PIERROT  OF  THE  MINUTE 


The  Moon  Maiden's  Song. 

Sleep  !    Cast  thy  canopy 

Over  this  sleeper's  brain. 

Dim  grow  his  memory, 

When  he  awake  again. 

Love  stays  a  summer  night, 

Till  lights  of  morning  come  ; 

Then  takes  her  winged  flight 
Back  to  her  starry  home. 

Sleep  1    Yet  thy  days  are  mine ; 

Love's  seal  is  over  thee  : 
Far  though  my  ways  from  thine, 

Dim  though  thy  memory. 

Love  stays  a  summer  night, 

Till  lights  of  morning  come  ; 

Then  takes  her  winged  flight 
Back  to  her  starry  home. 

[When  the  song  is  finished,  the  curtain  falls  upon 
Pierrot  sleeping^ 

The  End 

ii6 


DECORATIONS 


BEYOND 


Love's  aftermath  !  I  think  the  time  is  now 

That  we  must  gather  in,  alone,  apart 

The  saddest  crop  of  all  the  crops  that  grow, 

Love's  aftermath. 
Ah,  sweet, — sweet  yesterday,  the  tears  that  start 
Can  not  put  back  the  dial ;  this  is,  I  trow, 
Our  harvesting  !    Thy  kisses  chill  my  heart, 
Our  lips  are  cold  ;  averted  eyes  avow 
The  twilight  of  poor  love  :  we  can  but  part, 
Dumbly  and  sadly,  reaping  as  we  sow, 

Love's  aftermath. 


ii8 


DE  AMORE 


Shall  one  be  sorrowful  because  of  love, 

Which  hath  no  earthly  crown, 

Which  lives  and  dies,  unknown  ? 
Because  no  words  of  his  shall  ever  move 

Her  maiden  heart  to  own 

Him  lord  and  destined  master  of  her  own  : 
Is  Love  so  weak  a  thing  as  this, 

Who  can  not  lie  awake, 

Solely  for  his  own  sake. 
For  lack  of  the  dear  hands  to  hold,  the  lips  to  kiss, 
A  mere  heart-ache  ? 

Nay,  though  love's  victories  be  great  and  sweet, 

Nor  vain  and  foolish  toys, 

His  crowned,  earthly  joys. 
Is  there  no  comfort  then  in  love's  defeat  ? 

Because  he  shall  defer. 

For  some  short  span  of  years  all  part  in  her, 
119 


DE  AMORE 


Submitting  to  forego 

The  certain  peace  which  happier  lovers  know  ; 
Because  he  shall  be  utterly  disowned, 
Nor  length  of  service  bring 
Her  least  awakening  : 
Foiled,  frustrate  and  alone,  misunderstood  dis- 
crowned, 
Is  Love  less  King  ? 

Grows  not  the  world  to  him  a  fairer  place, 

How  far  soever  his  days 

Pass  from  his  lady's  ways, 
From  mere  encounter  with  her  golden  face  ? 

Though  all  his  sighing  be  vain, 

Shall  he  be  heavy-hearted  and  complain  ? 
Is  she  not  still  a  star, 
Deeply  to  be  desired,  worshipped  afar, 

A  beacon-light  to  aid 

From  bitter-sweet  delights,  Love's  masquerade  ? 
Though  he  lose  many  things, 

Though  much  he  miss  : 
The  heart  upon  his  heart,  the  hand  that  clings, 

The  memorable  first  kiss  ; 
Love  that  is  love  at  all, 
Needs  not  an  earthly  coronal ; 

1 20 


DE  AMORE 


Love  is  himself  his  own  exceeding  great  reward, 
A  mighty  lord  ! 

Lord  over  life  and  all  the  ways  of  breath, 

Mighty  and  strong  to  save 

From  the  devouring  grave; 
Yea,  whose  dominion  doth  out-tyrant  death, 

Thou  who  art  life  and  death  in  one, 

The  night,  the  sun  ; 
Who  art,  when  all  things  seem: 

Foiled,  frustrate  and  forlorn,  rejected  of  to-day 

Go  with  me  all  my  way, 
And  let  me  not  blaspheme. 


121 


THE  DEAD  CHILD 


Sleep  on,  dear,  now 

The  last  sleep  and  the  best, 
And  on  thy  brow, 

And  on  thy  quiet  breast 
Violets  I  throw. 

Thy  scanty  years 

Were  mine  a  little  while  ; 
Life  had  no  fears 

To  trouble  thy  brief  smile 
With  toil  or  tears. 

Lie  still,  and  be 

For  evermore  a  child  ! 
Not  grudgingly, 

Whom  life  has  not  defiled, 
I  render  thee. 

122 


THE  DEAD  CHILD 

Slumber  so  deep, 

No  man  would  rashly  wake  ; 
I  hardly  weep, 

Fain  only,  for  thy  sake, 
To  share  thy  sleep. 

Yes,  to  be  dead, 

Dead,  here  with  thee  to-day,— 
When  all  is  said 

'Twere  good  by  thee  to  lay 
My  weary  head. 

The  very  best! 

Ah,  child  so  tired  of  play, 
I  stand  confessed  : 

I  want  to  come  thy  way, 
And  share  thy  rest. 


123 


CARTHUSIANS 


Through  what  long  heaviness,  assayed  in  what 
strange  fire, 

Have  these  white  monks  been  brought  into  the 
way  of  peace, 
Despising  the  world's  wisdom  and  the  world's 
desire, 

Which  from  the  body  of  this  death  bring  no 
release  ? 

Within  their  austere  walls  no  voices  penetrate  ; 

A  sacred  silence  only,  as  of  death,  obtains  ; 
Nothing  finds  entry  here  of  loud  or  passionate  ; 

This  quiet  is  the  exceeding  profit  of  their  pain? 

From  many  lands  they  came,  in  divers  fiery  ways  ; 

Each  knew  at  last  the  vanity  of  earthly  joys; 
And  one  was  crowned  with  thorns,  and  one  was 
crowned  with  bays, 
And  each  was  tired  at  last  of  the  world's  foolish 
noise. 

124 


CARTHUSIANS 


It  was  not  theirs  with  Dominic  to  preach  God's 
holy  wrath, 

They  were  too  stern  to  bear  sweet  Francis'  gentle 
sway ; 

Theirs  was  a  higher  calling  and  a  steeper  path, 
To  dwell  alone  with  Christ,  to  meditate  and 
pray. 

A  cloistered  company,  they  are  companionless, 
None  knoweth  here  the  secret  of  his  brother's 
heart  : 

They  are  but  come  together  for  more  loneliness, 
Whose  bond  is  solitude  and  silence  all  their 
part. 

O  beatific  life  1    Who  is  there  shall  gainsay, 
Your  great  refusal's  victory,  your  little  loss. 

Deserting  vanity  for  the  more  perfect  way, 

The  sweeter  service  of  the  most  dolorous  Cross. 

Ye  shall  prevail  at  last !    Surely  ye  shall  prevail ! 

Your  silence  and  austerity  shall  win  at  last  : 
Desire  and  mirth,  the  world's  ephemeral  lights 
shall  fail. 

The  sweet  star  of  your  queen  is  never  overcast. 
125 


CARTHUSIANS 

We  fling  up  flowers  and  laugh,  we  laugh  across  the 
wine  ; 

With  wine  we  dull  our  souls  and  careful  strains 
of  art ; 

Our  cups  are  polished  skulls  round  which  the 
roses  twine  : 
None  dares  to  look  at  Death  who  leers  and 
lurks  apart. 

Move  on,  white  company,  whom  that  has  not 
sufficed ! 

Our  viols  cease,  our  wine  is  death,  our  roses 
fail: 

Pray  for  our  heedlessness,  O  dwellers  with  the 
Christ ! 

Though  the  world  fall  apart,  surely  ye  shall 
prevail. 


126 


THE  THREE  WITCHES 


All  the  moon-shed  nights  are  over, 
And  the  days  of  gray  and  dun ; 

There  is  neither  may  nor  clover, 
And  the  day  and  night  are  one. 

Not  an  hamlet,  not  a  city 

Meets  our  strained  and  tearless  eyes ; 
In  the  plain  without  a  pity, 

Where  the  wan  grass  droops  and  dies. 

We  shall  wander  through  the  meaning 

Of  a  day  and  see  no  light, 
For  our  lichened  arms  are  leaning 

On  the  ends  of  endless  night. 

We,  the  children  of  Astarte, 
Dear  abortions  of  the  moon, 

In  a  gay  and  silent  party, 
We  are  riding  to  you  soon. 
127 


THE  THREE  WITCHES 

Burning  ramparts,  ever  burning  I 
To  the  flame  which  never  dies 

We  are  yearning,  yearning,  yearning, 
With  our  gay  and  tearless  eyes. 

In  the  plain  without  a  pity, 
(Not  an  hamlet,  not  a  city) 
Where  the  wan  grass  droops  and  dies. 


118 


VILLANELLE  OF  THE  POET'S 
ROAD 

Wine  and  woman  and  song, 

Three  things  garnish  our  way  : 
Yet  is  day  over  long. 

Lest  we  do  our  youth  wrong, 

Gather  them  while  we  may  : 
Wine  and  woman  and  song. 

Three  things  render  us  strong, 
Vine  leaves,  kisses  and  bay  ; 
Yet  is  day  over  long. 

Unto  us  they  belong, 

Us  the  bitter  and  gay, 
Wine  and  woman  and  song. 

We,  as  we  pass  along, 

Are  sad  that  they  will  not  stay ; 
Yet  is  day  over  long. 

129  I 


VILLANELLE  OF  THE  POETS  ROAD 


Fruits  and  flowers  among, 
What  is  better  than  they  : 

Wine  and  woman  and  song  r 
Yet  is  day  over  long. 


130 


VILLANELLE  OF  ACHERON 

By  the  pale  marge  of  Acheron, 

Methinks  we  shall  pass  restfully, 
Beyond  the  scope  of  any  sun. 

There  all  men  hie  them  one  by  one. 

Far  from  the  stress  of  earth  and  sea, 
By  the  pale  marge  of  Acheron. 

'Tis  well  when  life  and  love  is  done, 

*Tis  very  well  at  last  to  be, 
Beyond  the  scope  of  any  sun. 

No  busy  voices  there  shall  stun 

Our  ears :  the  stream  flows  silently 
By  the  pale  marge  of  Acheron. 

There  is  the  crown  of  labour  won. 

The  sleep  of  immortality. 
Beyond  the  scope  of  any  sun. 


VlLLANELLE  OF  ACHERON 

Life,  of  thy  gifts  I  will  have  none, 
My  queen  is  that  Persephone^ 

By  the  pale  marge  of  Acheron, 
Beyond  the  scope  of  any  sun. 


13a 


SAINT  GERMAIN-EN-LA  V^E 

(1887-1895) 

Through  the  green  boughs  I  hardly  saw  thy  face, 
rhey  twined  so  close  :  the  sun  was  in  mine  eyes  ; 
And  now  the  sullen  trees  in  sombre  lace 
Stand  bare  beneath  the  sinister,  sad  skies. 

O  sun  and  summer !    Say  in  what  far  night, 
The  gold  and  green,  the  glory  of  thine  head, 
Of  bough  and  branch  have  fallen  ?    Oh,  the  white 
Gaunt  ghosts  that  flutter  where  thy  feet  have  sped, 

Across  the  terrace  that  is  desolate, 
And  rang  then  with  thy  laughter,  ghost  of  thee. 
That  holds  its  shroud  up  with  most  delicate, 
Dead  fingers,  and  behind  the  ghost  of  me, 

Tripping  fantastic  with  a  mouth  that  jeers 
At  roseal  flowers  of  youth  the  turbid  streams 
Toss  in  derision  down  the  barren  years 
To  death  the  host  of  all  our  golden  dreams. 

133 


AFTER  PAUL  VERLAINE 


I 

//  pUut  doucement  sur  la  vtlle. 

Rimbaud. 

Tears  fall  within  mine  heart, 
As  rain  upon  the  town  : 
Whence  does  this  languor  start. 
Possessing  all  mine  heart  ? 

O  sweet  fall  of  the  rain 
Upon  the  earth  and  roofs  1 
Unto  an  heart  in  pain, 
O  music  of  the  rain  1 

Tears  that  have  no  reason 
Fall  in  my  sorry  heart : 
What  I  there  was  no  treason  ? 
This  grief  hath  no  reason. 

134 


AFTER  PAUL  VERLAINE 

Nay  I  the  more  desolate, 
Because,  I  know  not  why, 
(Neither  for  love  nor  hate) 
Mine  heart  is  desolate. 


^35 


AFTER  PAUL  VERLAINE 


II 

CoLLOQUE  Sentimental 

Into  the  lonely  park  all  frozen  fast, 

Awhile  ago  there  were  two  forms  who  passed. 

Lo,  are  their  lips  fallen  and  their  eyes  dead, 
Hardly  shall  a  man  hear  the  words  they  said. 

Into  the  lonely  park,  all  frozen  fast, 

There  came  two  shadows  who  recall  the  past. 

"  Dost  thou  remember  our  old  ecstasy  ? " — 
^'Wherefore  should  I  possess  that  memory  ? " — 

"  Doth  thine  heart  beat  at  my  sole  name  alway  ? 
Still  dost  thou  see  my  soul  in  visions? "  "  Nay  !  " — 

They  were  fair  days  of  joy  unspeakable, 
Whereon  our   lips  were  joined  ?  " — "  I  cannot 
tell."— 

136 


AFTER  PAUL  VERLAINE 

"  Were  not  the   heavens   blue,  was  not  hope 
high?"— 

"Hope  has  fled  vanquished  down  the  darkling 
sky."— 

So  through  the  barren  oats  they  wandered, 
And  the  night  only  heard  the  words  they  said. 


137 


AFTER  PAUL  VERLAINE 


III 

Spleen 

Around  were  all  the  roses  red, 
The  ivy  all  around  was  black. 

Dear,  so  thou  only  move  thine  head, 
Shall  all  mine  old  despairs  awake ! 

Too  blue,  too  tender  was  the  sky, 
The  air  too  soft,  too  green  the  sea. 

Always  I  fear,  I  know  not  why, 
Some  lamentable  flight  from  thee. 

I  am  so  tired  of  holly-sprays 
And  weary  of  the  bright  box-tree. 

Of  all  the  endless  country  ways  ; 
Of  everything  alas  1  save  thee. 

138 


AFTER  PAUL  VERLAINE 


IV 

The  sky  is  up  above  the  roof 

So  blue,  so  soft  ! 
A  tree  there,  up  above  the  roof, 

Swayeth  aloft. 

A  bell  within  that  sky  we  see, 

Chimes  low  and  faint  : 
A  bird  upon  that  tree  we  see, 

Maketh  complaint. 

Dear  God  I  is  not  the  life  up  there, 

Simple  and  sweet  ? 
How  peacefully  are  borne  up  there 

Sounds  of  the  street  1 

What  hast  thou  done,  who  comest  here, 

To  weep  alway  ? 
Where  hast  thou  laid,  who  comest  here. 

Thy  youth  away? 

139 


TO  HIS  MISTRESS 


There  comes  an  end  to  summer, 

To  spring  showers  and  hoar  rime  ; 
His  mumming  to  each  mummer 

Has  somewhere  end  in  time, 
And  since  life  ends  and  laughter, 

And  leaves  fall  and  tears  dry, 
Who  shall  call  love  immortal, 

When  all  that  is  must  die  ? 

Nay,  sweet,  let's  leave  unspoken 

The  vows  the  fates  gainsay, 
For  all  vows  made  arc  broken, 

We  love  but  while  we  may. 
Let's  kiss  when  kissing  pleases, 

And  part  when  kisses  pall, 
Perchance,  this  time  to-morrow, 

We  shall  not  love  at  all. 

140 


TO  HIS  MISTRESS 


You  ask  my  love  completest, 

As  strong  next  year  as  now, 
The  devil  take  you,  sweetest, 

Ere  I  make  aught  such  vow. 
Life  is  a  masque  that  changes, 

A  fig  for  constancy  1 
No  love  at  all  were  better, 

Than  love  which  is  not  free. 


HI 


JADIS 


Ere  WHILE,  before  the  world  was  old, 
When  violets  grew  and  celandine, 
In  Cupid's  train  we  were  enrolled  : 

Erewhile  I 
Your  little  hands  were  clasped  in  mine, 
Your  head  all  ruddy  and  sun-gold 
Lay  on  my  breast  which  was  your  shrine, 
And  all  the  tale  of  love  was  told  : 
Ah,  God,  that  sweet  things  should  decline, 
And  fires  fade  out  which  were  not  cold, 

Erewhile. 


142 


IN  A  BRETON  CEMETERY 

They  sleep  well  here, 

These  fisher-folk  who  passed  their  anxious  days 

In  fierce  Atlantic  ways  ; 
And  found  not  there, 

Beneath  the  long  curled  wave, 

So  quiet  a  grave. 

And  they  sleep  well 

These  peasant-folk,  who  told  their  lives  away, 

From  day  to  market-day, 
As  one  should  tell, 

With  patient  industry, 

Some  sad  old  rosary. 

And  now  night  falls, 

Me,  tempest-tost,  and  driven  from  pillar  to  post, 

A  poor  worn  ghost. 
This  quiet  pasture  calls  ; 

And  dear  dead  people  with  pale  hands 

Beckon  me  to  their  lands 


143 


TO  WILLIAM  THEODORE  PETERS 
ON  HIS  RENAISSANCE  CLOAK 

The  cherry-coloured  velvet  of  your  cloak 
Time  hath  not  soiled  :  its  fair  embroideries 

Gleam  as  when  centuries  ago  they  spoke 
To  what  bright  gallant  of  Her  Daintiness, 
Whose  slender  fingers,  long  since  dust  and  dead, 
For  love  or  courtesy  embroidered 

The  cherry-coloured  velvet  of  this  cloak. 

Ah !  cunning  flowers  of  silk  and  silver  thread, 
That  mock  mortality  ?  the  broidering  dame, 
The  page  they  decked,  the  kings  and  courts  are 
dead : 

Gone  the  age  beautiful ;  Lorenzo's  name, 
The  Borgia's  pride  are  but  an  empty  sound  ; 
But  lustrous  still  upon  their  velvet  ground, 
Time  spares  these  flowers  of  silk  and  silver  thread. 

144 


TO  WILLIAM  THEODORE  PETERS 

Gone  is  that  age  of  pageant  and  of  pride  : 
Yet  don  your  cloak,  and  haply  it  shall  seem, 

The  curtain  of  old  time  is  set  aside ; 

As  through  the  sadder  coloured  throng  you 
gleam  ; 

We  see  once  more  fair  dame  and  gallant  gay, 
The  glamour  and  the  grace  of  yesterday  : 
The  elder,  brighter  age  of  pomp  and  pride. 


THE  SEA-CHANGE 

Where  river  and  ocean  meet  in  a  great  tempestuous 
frown, 

Beyond  the  bar,  where  on  the  dunes  the  white- 
capped  rollers  break  ; 

Above,  one  windmill  stands  forlorn  on  the  arid, 
grassy  down  : 

I  will  set  my  sail  on  a  stormy  day  and  cross  the 
bar  and  seek 

That  I  have  sought  and  never  found,  the  ex- 
quisite one  crown. 

Which  crowns  one  day  with  all  its  calm  the 
passionate  and  the  weak. 

When  the  mad  winds  are  unreined,  wilt  thou  not 

storm,  my  sea  ? 
(1  have  ever  loved  thee  so,  I  have  ever  done  thee 

wrong 

146 


THE  SEA-CHANGE 

In  drear  terrestrial  ways.)    When  I  trust  myself 
to  thee 

With  a  last  great  hope,  arise  and  sing  thine  ultimate, 
great  song 

Sung  to  so  many  better  men,  O  sing  at  last  to  me, 
That  which  when  once  a  man  has  heard,  he  heeds 
not  over  long. 

I  will  bend  my  sail  when  the  great  day  comes  ;  thy 

kisses  on  my  face 
Shall  seal  all  things  that  are  old,  outworn;  and 

anger  and  regret 
Shall  fade  as  the  dreams  and  days  shall  fade,  and  in 

thy  salt  embrace, 
When  thy  fierce  caresses  blind  mine  eyes  and  my 

limbs  grow  stark  and  set, 
All  that  I  know  in  all  my  mind  shall  no  more  have 

a  place  : 

The  weary  ways  of  men  and  one  woman  I  shall 
forget. 

Poinc  du  Pouldu, 


HI 


DREGS 

The  fire  is  out,  and  spent  the  warmth  thereof 
(This  is  the  end  of  every  song  man  sings  I) 
The  golden  wine  is  drunk,  the  dregs  remain, 
Bitter  as  wormwood  and  as  salt  as  pain  ; 
And  health  and  hope  have  gone  the  way  of  love 
Into  the  drear  oblivion  of  lost  things. 
Ghosts  go  along  with  us  until  the  end ; 
This  was  a  mistress,  this,  perhaps,  a  friend. 
With  pale,  indifferent  eyes,  we  sit  and  wait 
For  the  dropt  curtain  and  the  closing  gate  : 
This  is  the  end  of  all  the  songs  man  sings. 


A  SONG 


All  that  a  man  may  pray, 
Have  I  not  prayed  to  thee  ? 

What  were  praise  left  to  say, 
Has  not  been  said  by  me 
O,  ma  mie  f 

Yet  thine  eyes  and  thine  heart, 
Always  were  dumb  to  me : 

Only  to  be  my  part, 

Sorrow  has  come  from  thee, 
O,  ma  mie  ? 

Where  shall  I  seek  and  hide 
My  grief  away  with  me  ? 
Lest  my  bitter  tears  should  chide, 
Bring  brief  dismay  to  thee, 
O,  ma  mie  ? 

149 


A  SONG 


More  than  a  man  may  pray, 
Have  I  not  prayed  to  thee  ? 

What  were  praise  left  to  say, 
Has  not  been  said  by  me, 
O,  ma  mie  ? 


ISO 


BRETON  AFTERNOON 


Here,  where  the  breath  of  the  scented-gorse  floats 

through  the  sun-stained  air, 
On  a  steep  hill-side,  on  a  grassy  ledge,  I  have  lain 

hours  long  and  heard 
Only  the  faint  breeze   pass  in  a  whisper  like  a 

prayer, 

And  the  river  ripple  by  and  the  distant  call  of  a 
bird. 

On  the  lone  hill-side,  in  the  gold  sunshine,  I  will 

hush  me  and  repose, 
And  the  world  fades  into  a  dream  and  a  spell  is 

cast  on  me  ; 

And  what  was  all  the  strife  ahout^  for  the  myrtle  or 
the  rose. 

And  why  have  I  wept  for  a  white  girl's  paleness  pass- 
ing ivory  I 


BRETON  AFTERNOON 


Out  of  the  tumult  of  angry  tongues,  in  a  land  alone, 
apart, 

In  a  perfumed  dream-land  set  betwixt  the  bounds 

of  life  and  death, 
Here  will  I  lie  while  the  clouds  fly  by  and  delve  an 

hole  where  my  heart 
May  sleep  deep  down  with  the  gorse  above  and  red, 

red  earth  beneath. 

Sleep  and  be  quiet  for  an  afternoon,  till  the  rose- 
white  angelus 

Softly  steals  my  way  from  the  village  under  the 
hill: 

Mother  of  God^  O  Misericord,  look  down  in  pity  on 
us, 

The  weak  and  blind  who  stand  in  our  light  and  wreak 
ourselves  such  ill 


152 


VENITE  DESCENDAMUS 


Let  be  at  last ;  give  over  words  and  sighing, 

Vainly  were  all  things  said  : 
Better  at  last  to  find  a  place  for  lying, 

Only  dead. 

Silence  were  best,  with  songs  and  sighing  over  ; 

Now  be  the  music  mute ; 
Now  let  the  dead,  red  leaves  of  autumn  cover 

A  vain  lute. 

Silence  is  best :  for  ever  and  for  ever, 

We  will  go  down  and  sleep, 
Somewhere  beyond  her  ken,  where  she  need  never 

Come  to  weep. 

Let  be  at  last  :  colder  she  grows  and  colder  ; 

Sleep  and  the  night  were  best ; 
Lying  at  last  where  we  can  not  behold  her, 

We  may  rest. 

1^3 


TRANSITION 


A  LITTLE  while  to  walk  with  thee,  dear  child  ; 

To  lean  on  thee  my  weak  and  weary  head ; 
Then  evening  comes  :  the  winter  sky  is  wild, 

The  leafless  trees  are  black,  the  leaves  long  dead. 

A  little  while  to  hold  thee  and  to  stand, 
By  harvest-fields  of  bending  golden  corn  ; 

Then  the  predestined  silence,  and  thine  hand. 
Lost  in  the  night,  long  and  weary  and  forlorn. 

A  little  while  to  love  thee,  scarcely  time 

To  love  thee  well  enough  ;  then  time  to  part, 

To  fare  through  wintry  fields  alone  and  climb 
The  frozen  hills,  not  knowing  where  thou  art. 

Short  summer-time  and  then,  my  heart's  desire. 
The  winter  and  the  darkness  :  one  by  one 

Tiie  roses  fall,  the  pale  roses  expire 
Beneath  the  slow  decadence  of  the  sun, 
^54 


EXCHANGES 

All  that  I  had  I  brought, 

Little  enough  I  know  ; 
A  poor  rhyme  roughly  wrought, 

A  rose  to  match  thy  snow  : 
All  that  I  had  I  brought. 

Little  enough  I  sought : 
But  a  word  compassionate, 

A  passing  glance,  or  thought, 
For  me  outside  the  gate : 

Little  enough  I  sought. 

Little  enough  I  found  : 

All  that  you  had,  perchance  ! 

With  the  dead  leaves  on  the  ground, 
I  dance  the  devil's  dance. 

All  that  you  had  I  found. 


155 


TO  A  LADY  ASKING  FOOLISH 
QUESTIONS 

Why  am  I  sorry,  Chloe  ?   Because  the  moon  is  far: 
And  who  am  I  to  be  straitened  in  a  little  earthly 
star  ? 

Because  thy  face  is  fair  ?    And  what  if  it  had  not 
been, 

The  fairest  face  of  all  is  the  face  I  have  not  seen. 

Because  the  land  is  cold,  and  however  I  scheme  and 
plot, 

I  can  not  find  a  ferry  to  the  land  where  I  am  not. 

Because  thy  lips  are  red  and  thy  breasts  upbraid  the 
snow  ? 

(There  is  neither  white  nor  red  in  the  pleasance 
where  I  go.) 

156 


TO  A  LADY 

Because  thy  lips  grow  pale  and  thy  breasts  gro^ 

dun  and  fall  ? 
I  go  where  the  wind  blows,  Chloe,  and  am  not 

sorry  at  all. 


157 


RONDEAU 


Ah,  Manon,  say,  why  is  it  we 
Are  one  and  all  so  fain  of  thee  ? 
Thy  rich  red  beauty  debonnalre 
In  very  truth  is  not  more  fair, 
Than  the  shy  grace  and  purity 
That  clothe  the  maiden  maidenly ; 
Her  gray  eyes  shine  more  tenderly 
And  not  less  bright  than  thine  her  hair, 

Ah,  Manon,  say  ! 
Expound,  I  pray,  the  mystery 
Why  wine-stained  lip  and  languid  eye, 
And  most  unsaintly  Maenad  air, 
Should  move  us  more  than  all  the  rare 
White  roses  of  virginity  ? 

Ah,  Manon,  say  \ 


158 


MORITURA 


A  SONG  of  the  setting  sun  ! 

The  sky  in  the  west  is  red, 
And  the  day  is  all  but  done  : 

While  yonder  up  overhead, 
All  too  soon. 
There  rises,  so  cold,  the  cynic  moon. 

A  song  of  a  winter  day  ! 

The  wind  of  the  north  doth  blow, 
From  a  sky  that's  chill  and  gray, 

On  fields  where  no  crops  now  grow 
Fields  long  shorn 
Of  bearded  barley  and  golden  corn. 

A  song  of  an  old,  old  man ! 

His  hairs  are  white  and  his  gaze, 
Long  bleared  in  his  visage  wan. 

With  its  weight  of  yesterdays, 
Joylessly 

He  stands  and  mumbles  and  looks  at  me. 
^59 


MORITURA 


A  song  of  a  faded  flower  ! 

'Twas  plucked  in  the  tender  bud, 
And  fair  and  fresh  for  an  hour, 

In  a  lady's  hair  it  stood. 
Now,  ah,  now. 
Faded  it  lies  in  the  dust  and  low. 


1 60 


LIBERA  ME 


Goddess  the  laughter-loving,  Aphrodite,  befriend  I 
Long  have  I  served  thine  altars,  serve  me  now  at 
the  end, 

Let  me  have  peace  of  thee,  truce  of  thee,  golden 
one,  send. 

Heart  of  my  heart  have  I  offered  thee,  pain  of  my 
pain, 

Yielding  my  life  for  the  love  of  thee  into  thy  chain ; 
Lady  and  goddess  be  merciful,  loose  me  again. 

All  things  I  had  that  were  fairest,  my  dearest  and 
best. 

Fed  the  fierce  flames  on  thine  altar  :  ah,  surely,  my 
breast 

Shrined  thee  alone  among  goddesses,  spurning  tho 
rest. 

i6i  L 


LIBERA  ME 


Blossom  of  youth  thou  hast  pluckca  of  me,  flower 
of  my  days  ; 

Stinted  I  nought  in  thine  honouring,  walked  in 
thy  ways, 

Song  of  my  soul  pouring  out  to  thee,  all  in  thy 
praise. 

Fierce  was  the  flame  while  it  lasted,  and  strong 

was  thy  wine, 
Meet  for  immortals  that  die  not,  for  throats  such 

as  thine, 

Too  fierce  for  bodies  of  mortals,  too  potent  for 
mine. 

Blossom  and  bloom  hast  thou  taken,  now  render 
to  me 

A.shes  of  life  that  remain  to  me,  few  though  they 
be, 

Truce  of  the  love  of  thee,  Cyprian,  let  me  go  free 

Goddess  the  laughter-loving.  Aphrodite,  restore 
Life  to  the  limbs  of  me,  liberty,  hold  me  no  more 
Having  the  first-fruits  and  flower  of  me,  cast  me 
the  core. 

162 


TO  A  LOST  LOVE 

I  SEEK  no  more  to  bridge  the  gulf  that  lies 

Betwixt  our  separate  ways ; 

For  vainly  my  heart  prays, 
Hope  droops  her  head  and  dies  ; 
I  see  the  sad,  tired  answer  in  your  eyes. 

I  did  not  heed,  and  yet  the  stars  were  clear ; 

Dreaming  that  love  could  mate 

Lives  grown  so  separate ; — 
But  at  the  best,  my  dear, 
I  see  we  should  not  have  been  very  near. 

I  knew  the  end  before  the  end  was  nigh ! 

The  stars  have  grown  so  plain  ; 

Vainly  I  sigh,  in  vain 
For  things  that  come  to  some, 
But  unto  you  and  me  will  never  come. 


163 


WISDOM 


Love  wine  and  beauty  and  the  spring, 
While  wine  is  red  and  spring  is  here, 

And  through  the  almond  blossoms  ring 
The  dove-like  voices  of  thy  Dear. 

Love  wine  and  spring  and  beauty  while 
The  wine  hath  flavour  and  spring  masks 

Her  treachery  in  so  soft  a  smile 

That  none  may  think  of  toil  and  tasks. 

But  when  sprmg  goes  on  hurrying  feet, 
Look  not  thy  sorrow  in  the  eyes. 

And  bless  thy  freedom  from  thy  sweet : 
This  is  the  wisdom  of  the  wise. 


164 


IN  SPRING 


See  how  the  trees  and  the  osiers  lithe 

Are  green  bedecked  and  the  woods  are  blithe; 

The  meadows  have  donned  their  cape  of  flowers, 

The  air  is  soft  with  the  sweet  May  showers, 
And  the  birds  make  melody  : 

But  the  spring  of  the  soul,  the  spring  of  the  soul, 
Cometh  no  more  for  you  or  for  me. 

The  lazy  hum  of  the  busy  bees 
Murmureth  through  the  almond  trees  ; 
The  jonquil  flaunteth  a  gay,  blonde  head, 
The  primrose  peeps  from  a  mossy  bed. 

And  the  violets  scent  the  lane. 
But  the  flowers  of  the  soul,  the  flowers  of  the  soul, 

For  you  and  for  me  bloom  never  again. 


165 


A  LAST  WORD 

Let  us  go  hence  :  the  night  is  now  at  hand ; 
The  day  is  overworn,  the  birds  all  flown  ; 
And  we  have  reaped  the  crops  the  gods  have 
sown  ; 

Despair  and  death  ;  deep  darkness  o'er  the  land, 
Broods  like  an  owl ;  we  cannot  understand 
Laughter  or  tears,  for  we  have  only  known 
Surpassing  vanity  :  vain  things  alone 
Have  driven  our  perverse  and  aimless  band. 

Let  us  go  hence,  somewhither  strange  and  cold, 
To  Hollow  Lands  where  just  men  and  unjust 
Find  end  of  labour,  where's  rest  for  the  old, 
Freedom  to  all  from  love  and  fear  and  lust. 
Twine  our  torn  hands  !    O  pray  the  earth  enfold 
Our  life-sick  hearts  and  turn  them  into  dust. 


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